


The Hearts of Kings

by summoner_yuna_of_besaid



Series: Middle-Earth Madness [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Genderqueer, Genderqueer Character, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Trans Character, Transgender
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 54,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summoner_yuna_of_besaid/pseuds/summoner_yuna_of_besaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo leaves Erebor heartbroken, thinking that some of the people he cherished most were gone.  If he'd hung around, he'd have known Thorin was in a coma, and his nephews had been wrongly assumed dead.  </p><p>Returning home, he finds the Shire in dreadful danger, threatened by the remnants of the Goblin armies.  Their only hope is to fight back, and luckily the Rangers are willing to help.  Led by a man named Strider, the Rangers ask for Bilbo's assistance in amassing an army, and the hobbit readily agrees.  </p><p>He runs off on another adventure, this time to save his home - and not a day later, a company of dwarves comes down from Erebor, only to find Bag End is empty.  So begins the mad adventure to save the Shire, and mend a broken Hobbit's heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Ranger in the Shire

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes its sources from quite a few places, not limited to Tolkien's canon, Jackson's movies, and the Lord of the Rings Online game. Most of this is just for reference, and quite a bit is played around with. Most particularly, the canon timeline is bent to allow for Aragorn to be an adult at this time period. The whole Rangers protecting the Shire from Goblins thing actually happens about ten years after the Hobbit. So, I suppose Aragorn was born ten years earlier in my storyline.
> 
> This story also delves heavily into discussions of gender, sexuality, relationships, and identity, and how various cultures deal with those things. If a specific chapter is triggering for some reason, I will say so. Many many characters in this story are transgender and some have alternative pronouns. All of this will come up in the story and will be explained.
> 
> NOTE: Originally this piece used a set of gender neutral pronouns I invented, which have since been replaced with they/their as I've been informed it's easier to read that way. Those pronouns will come back in conversation, but in third person POV, Aragorn will be referred to as they/their. Sorry for the confusion!

The tears didn’t come until the door to Bag End shut behind him.

  
Bilbo fell against it, limbs trembling against the wood, fighting the feelings he knew had to come.  Long months had passed since he left the Lonely Mountain, but the loss he felt so keenly then was still a dull pain and it continued to ache.  It most likely always would.

 

He still saw them, as he knew them, when they still breathed: Fili, so bright and brilliant, always smiling; Kili, energetic, and heartfelt, and kind; … and Thorin, King Under the Mountain, for such a short time.  He deserved better, deserved more.  They all did.

 

But that was that, there was no arguing the what-if’s and why-not’s, what’s done is done and Bilbo can’t spend his life wondering why it had to be.  It simply was.  They were gone and here he was, a changed Hobbit as Gandalf had said he’d be.  He felt… larger, braver, wiser, and – wounded, in a way no healer could mend.

 

That was it, then.  Felt as if the world had ended, when Bilbo awoke on that field, when Thorin said his goodbyes, when he learned who had fallen.  And it had ended, for them.  But this was the lot of the living – to live on after the end, to keep breathing, somehow.

 

He’d done it before, and he could do it again.  Bilbo Baggins looked at his parents portraits above the fireplace, which he’d not seen in so long, yet knew so well.  Yes, he thought, clutching at his chest as if to try and reach in and tear out the pain, he could do it again.  That was simply how it had to be.

 

//

 

Only, it wasn’t.

 

//

 

_A Few Months Before, After the Battle of Five Armies_

 

The horrors of war do not end with the bloodshed; what follows is as grotesque and disheartening as the struggle itself.  The wounded and dying must be cared for, and the dead attended to.  A battlefield might become as a nightmare, a stretch of the nameless dead for endless miles, distorted beyond recognition.

 

It must fall to the miserable living to account for these dead, to find those who have fallen, to inform loved ones.  These hard tasks wear upon the soul.  Mistakes, can, then, easily be made.  Body against body, all bloodied and sullen and reeking, might be easily taken for one another. 

 

Of course, finding the King and his heirs was of great importance, for it was to them that rule was to fall.  Dain lived, and had been found, but he was not rightfully allowed to take charge, unless proof could be shown that the heirs of Durin had fallen.  To do anything less would be akin to treason.  So, the tireless effort to find the heirs in the wake of the battle began; and many a tired dwarf did try.  But how many had ever met these heirs?  How many knew them?   Thorin was found, in grievous condition, and in his injury, could not rule.  So it fell to Fili, or to Kili, if they could be found.  Well, they couldn’t.  They must be one of those bodies upon that endless grave, it was thought, and so they were declared dead. 

 

When they stumbled into camp two days later, neither dwarf was very happy about it.

  
As for Thorin, he was in a grave state indeed.  That last he had been awake was his goodbye to Bilbo, a tearful thing which broke all hearts who saw.  After, Thorin fell under, and in his horrible grief Bilbo stumbled from the tent, thinking him dead.  For who in such agony could recognize the subtle different between the sleep of death, and a dreadful coma from which the king might not wake?

 

Well, Bilbo could not know, and he did not linger long enough to find out.

 

So it was that Bilbo returned to the Shire with a heavy heart.  Perhaps it would have been easier, had he any close friends or relations to return to.  But he had always been seen as somewhat queer to them, since the loss of his parents, so he had none to find comfort in.

 

He missed them, Belladona and Bungo Baggins, more now than he had since first he lost them.  Bag End felt so empty, with naught but a single hobbit, and two aging portraits offering cold comfort, above the fireplace.

 

Still, it was very good to be home.  Painful as it was, Bilbo took consolation from returning to his old life at Bag End.  And, if he had his way, Bilbo Baggins would have no more to do with Kings and their mad quests.

 

It was all too bad, then, that fate had other plans.  For not only was the King Under the Mountain not yet gone from Bilbo’s life, but there was another, who did not use a royal title but had as much a right to one.  A man of many names, from many lands, who was always as kind, gentle, and good-natured as the best of men could be.

 

//

 

If the Wizard made another silly jab at Aragorn’s own expense, they might just give in to their rising urge to hit him.

 

They were not, typically, prideful, nor one inclined to violence – but this one called Gandalf was pushing them to the edges of their patience.  If Father had not supported his claim, Aragorn would not have even believed he was a wizard.  What a strange old man he was, always at word games, never speaking sense.

 

This whole trip was ridiculous.  Aragorn understood the need to defend the Shire; from Gandalf’s telling the Hobbits were rather peaceful sorts, unprepared for the onslaught bearing ever down upon them.  What they did not understand was why Gandalf insisted Aragorn accompany him on horseback via the main road, rather than allowing them to travel the Wilds with their fellow Rangers.

 

Heh.  “Fellow”.  If they could call them that.  Supposedly, it was their right, their duty, to lead them, and these last few years, the Rangers had gladly followed.  But Aragorn was a stranger to their people and their lands; barely full-grown, having only five and twenty years, raised by elves in a peaceful valley where hardships that were daily realities for the Ranger folk were virtually unknown.

 

What a mess, Aragorn sighed.

 

“Troubled?”

 

Aragorn inclined their head.  “There is much in this world that is troubling.  I fear for those I am headed towards, and those I leave behind.”

 

“Bah,” Gandalf waved a dismissive hand.  “You do not leave enough worry for those who are neither ahead nor behind.  We may yet need some of your concern.”  At that, the wizard glanced off into the woods.  “Foul things walk the borders of the Shire now, closer than they have dared since Golfimbul’s death at the hands of Bandobras Took.”

 

“Yes, so I’ve heard,” A few times, Aragorn thought, since this journey began.  “You’ve told me, that’s how golf was invented.”

 

“So I have!”  That seemed to be news to him.  Gandalf’s face lit up with a sly smile.  “So I have.”

 

They continued on, ever closer to the Shire, in blessed silence.  Aragorn was not much for idle chatting.  Least, not with one they knew so little of.  If they were traveling with Elladan and Elrohir… not for the first time, a bitter pang of loneliness welled up in Aragorn’s chest.

 

“Have you given any thought to your title?”  Gandalf’s words pulled at Aragorn’s attention.  They glanced up.  “What you will be called in the Shire?”

  
They … had not.  They said as much.

 

Exasperation made itself clear upon the wizard’s face.  “You are leaving the safety of the North, Dunedain, and here the people will not keep your name to themselves.  And your elven name stands out too much, for a man bearing an elven title will always draw attention.  No,” Gandalf shook his head.  “You must find some other name to bear here.  And most likely, wherever you go, you will always do so.  Your birth name is not safe outside your people’s homeland.”

 

They had not thought of it, but the wizard’s words rang true, and a greater sorrow sunk into the ranger’s chest.  Aragorn was still much unused to such secrecy, even after four years with the Dunedain.  To lie, over something so little as a name… yet, now more than ever, it was clear they could not share the name Aragorn with any but the closest of kin…

 

The weight of that name sunk into their bones, weighed darkly upon him.  They were not sure they wanted it, anyway.  As clear as day, Aragorn could remember when father had shown them the shards of Narsil, the ring of Barahir, told the truth – that their name was not Estel, but Aragorn, that they were the heir of a long lineage, and a heavy burden.  One they were not sure they were worthy to carry.

 

“Do not look so heavy-hearted,” Again, Aragorn looked to the wizard.  His expression was kind this time, almost gentle, and he looked upon Aragorn as one would a child.  It was somewhat disconcerting how comforting that was.  “What must seem very overwhelming now will come naturally as needs must, for I see in you the makings of kings.  I thought it might be, but… well…” The wizard glanced off.  “I wished to be sure.  And now I am!”

 

Was that the reason for this ridiculous side journey?  Baffled, Aragorn glanced off, not sure what to say.  The wizard simply wanted to know them better?  All this for – for – frowning, Aragorn turned away, biting their lip to keep from replying.

 

Wizards!

 

//

 

Now, while neither of them knew it, Gandalf and Aragorn were being followed, in a fashion, though not on purpose and not for any dire reason.  It was simply another group of travelers who chose the same road, having the same destination in mind, but they were perhaps two days’ travel behind the wizard and the ranger. 

 

These travelers came from the north as well, and the east, for the Lonely Mountain was their origin.  For they were none other than Thorin’s Company, whom you might know from other installments of these tales of Bilbo Baggins and the folk of Middle-Earth.

 

Some months past, Thorin Oakenshield awoke from his dreadful sleep, to the joy and relief of all those who knew him.  It had been a harsh few months, awaiting his fate, unsure of how the King might fare.  In that time, his sister, Dis, became Queen Under The Mountain, for she was of age and the closest kin to Thorin.

 

The mountain prospered under her rule.  Dwarves from near and far, from human settlements and the Blue Mountains, returned to Erebor.  The riches under the mountain were spread to the men of Lake-town, allowing them to rebuild their home, and to begin reconstructing of Dale.  With Dis, Bard and his people made peace, and Thranduil and his kin as well. 

  
For some, mostly the lower class folk, the thought of Thorin, rightful heir as the eldest male, awakening was not something to be pleased by.  This was a good time for everyone, peace and prosperity as they’d not had in ages, and Thorin Oakenshield carried many grudges with him.  He was a good man, but would he make a good King?

 

Few knew, but this question bothered Thorin himself.

 

He pondered it, the hours after his waking, sitting up in his sick bed feeling for all the world like Azog had made of him a pin cushion.  From what he could remember, he saw the beast fall under his nephew’s blades, but not what became of them, or the end of the battle… to hear that both still lived was more than he could ever have hoped for, and meant more to him than he could say.

 

“Uncle!”

 

Speaking of beloved nephews.  Thorin glanced up towards the door but by that time both boys had sprung into his bed, one on either side.  He gave a groan at the jostling but did little more than hug them in return, too relieved and overjoyed to care for how the embrace pained him.  His healer, though, gave greater care.

 

“Down, down you two!”  Oin insisted fervently, pulling at the twin nearest him.  “Hardly awake half a day and here you are treating him like a damned pony.  Down!”

 

“Sorry, uncle,” One said after the other, both still beaming bright.  Thorin gave a laugh, reaching out his hands for them, and both took his in their own tight grips.

 

“I’m so glad,” He began, throat tightening.  “So glad to see both of you.”  His final thoughts had been that he had sent them to their deaths, doomed them with his own greed.  He gripped their hands tight as he could and praised Mahal for this second chance.

 

Which brought him back to his thoughts before, of this realm and its rightful ruler.  Could he claim that title, King Under the Mountain?  Did he deserve it?  His short rule had almost cost them all their lives, had endangered the people of Lake-town, brought war to the land with his short-sighted foolishness, his pride.  Though the dragon sickness was gone, he still remembered it, and he feared to step into the treasure chamber should it return.  He feared the mountain, and the hold it might have upon him.  What kind of man could rule a kingdom he feared?  What man could rule others, who feared himself?

 

So it was that Thorin shared these troubles with his sister, Dis, and they discussed them.  And not a day later, Thorin Oakenshield abdicated to her, to all the shock and horror of so many elder clansmen.  A woman, ruling not in temperance, but until her dying days?  A Queen Under the Mountain!  It was so, and none of the nobles could challenge it, for none had a right better than Dis, Daughter of Thrain.  Thorin had forsaken that right, and did so gladly.

 

Her sons were not old enough, nor wise enough, though many clansmen argued in their favor.  Both boys came close to forsaking the rights themselves, until more even tempered dwarves reminded them that one day, they would inherit the mountain, and not to foolishly end their mother’s line out of a misplaced act of loyalty.  It would not be easy, asserting her right to rule, but if any dwarf could do it, it was Dis.

 

The first few weeks after he awoke, Thorin remained mostly abed.  His wounds healed with time, and he regained the strength of movement.  In those restless hours, all of the Company came to see him almost daily – for none, save two, had left without knowing the fate of their leader.

 

Thorin understood why they both had left, of course.  Gandalf was a wizard, with his own motives and machinations. And Bilbo…  Thorin had no right to expect Bilbo to await his recovery.

 

The dwarf thought often of Bilbo.  How he fared, whether he’d returned home safety.  What he might be doing.  Often, his thoughts returned to their final farewells, to how he’d treated the hobbit, during his sickness… he had been so wrong, so terribly wrong.  They had all wronged Bilbo gravely.

 

Thus, a thought came to him, of what must be done to right this wrong.  Bilbo certainly would never want to see Thorin again, and that was fine.  But Thorin had to make amends, to apologize.  Bilbo had been promised so much, and given so little, after all he had done for them.  This could not be left this way.

 

He thought to tell the others of his plan, that perhaps some of them might wish to come.  They had all, in their sickness, done wrong, though none so much as Thorin.  He should not have been surprised, though, to hear that all of the Company was eager to come along.

 

“Bilbo’s one of us,” Bofur told him one evening.  “Few of us even got to say goodbye, and fewer still had the chance or guts to apologize for what we did.  I know I didn’t.  I can’t sit here lollygagging and counting my gold knowing Bilbo’s out there, sitting home, thinking of what we did, that he mattered less to us than a heap of treasure.  I’d rather die than let him think that for a second longer than he has to!”

 

They set out as soon as they could.  Once Thorin felt strong enough, and proper preparations had been made.  But, still, they did not set out quite soon enough.  For Aragorn, son of Arathorn, would arrive in the Shire first, and so would begin all the troubles that were to follow.

 

//

 

Aragorn did not meet with the Rangers before they entered the Shire.  That had been their plan, originally, but the will of wizards always gets its way.

 

“There is a hobbit, a Mr. Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End,” Gandalf said this with a strange, comical note.  “He shall be of great use to you, I wager, in dealing with these troubles.  To combat the goblins you will need an army, and hobbits, when roused, are fierce indeed – but it is the rousing which is the trouble.  They cling to peace and propriety, as you will see, and it may take one of their own to get them going.”

 

So it was that Aragorn was not going to find their fellows, but a hobbit named Baggins.  They released the horse, an elven steed, to the wilds, for her masters were not far and she would find her way home easily enough.  They, on the other hand, had some distance to cover.  Aragorn took to walking and came upon Hobbiton within a handful of hours.

 

The central and largest city of the Shire, Hobbiton was a picturesque place, very green and grassy and warm.  Trees dotted the landscape, little rivers and lakes twisted between hills and valleys, and all around the hobbits went about their business with a general cheer and openness.

 

This mood did not spread to Aragorn, however.  Wherever they went, suspicion and wide eyes followed.  Aragorn walked quickly along the road, eager to be on their way.  There was no secrecy to be had here; Hobbiton was a wide, open space, and wherever they went they were the talk of all the little folk.

 

"What’s a man doing here, then?"

 

"Trouble, that’s what this is.  Big folk only ever bring trouble!"

 

"He’s in an awful hurry, with those big strides of his."

 

The sooner this was over with, the better, Aragorn thought.  This was no place for one such as them.  No, Aragorn was better suited to the wilderness and danger of the forests of Bree-land than the quaint fields of the Shire.

 

//

 

Life in the Shire was much as it ever was.  Two years away had changed little, but the state of his garden, and the moods of his neighbors.  Oh yes, the people of Hobbiton were much taken aback by the return of Bilbo Baggins, none more so than his own family, in a fashion.  Family that had the awful habit of stopping by to bother him all hours of the day.

 

The fervent knocking at his door kept on, even as Bilbo continued ignoring it.  He knew who it was, all right, for he could hear her insistent voice through the door.  Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had never forgiven him for coming back from that “awful venture” and taking up ownership of Bag End all by his lonesome.  She’d tire and leave him, after a while.

 

It was not that he begrudged his family anything, or that he would not give aid where it was needed or due.  Hoarding possessions out of greed was not a kind thing and he’d already seen the horrors it could unleash.  But what the Sackville-Bagginses wanted of him was not something he thought he could ever give.  Not anymore.

 

Sighing, Bilbo sunk further into his armchair.  All around were spread maps, charts, papers of the like.  Research into all sorts of things: the Greenwood, Rivendell, the Lonely Mountain.  Places Bilbo had seen for so little, and so longed to return to.  He would if only he could.  But to leave on his own seemed much too intimidating, and quite lonely.  And he was not sure he would like the reception he might find in Erebor.

 

The word alone sent a shiver through the man, and he held back a whimper.  It still hurt, after all this time; more so, because he could not take refuge in those friends left to him.  How could he?  How could he share his grief with them, when it was his own fault that… no, enough of that.  Bitter thoughts bring nothing but bitterness.  Here he was, a Baggins of Bag End, as he’d once told Gandalf, and here he would stay.  Whether he liked it or not. 

 

It was with those dark thoughts that Bilbo heard another knock at the door and finally came to the end of his patience.  With a few rather impolite mutterings, he leapt to his feet and stomped to the door.

 

“That is quite enough!”  He began passionately.  “Now, I’ve had plenty of visitors since I returned, not just a few being rather hard to shake, but at least they know when done is done and to go on their way!  I have had it to here with –“

 

And Bilbo through open his round green door to see a dark haired, cloaked figure, taller than any hobbit or dwarf, who was certainly not Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.

 

//

 

“You – you’re not Lobelia!”

 

Somewhat stunned by the rather odd introduction, Aragorn had to confess that was the case.  “No… I am not.”  The little hobbit looked utterly baffled, eyes wide and mouth gaping.

 

“Well, I – I’m so sorry!  I’ve been terribly rude, Mr. …?”

 

Standing outside Bag End, Aragorn realized they could not answer the Hobbit’s implied question - as they had never thought of a new name.  A sudden heat came over their face as they struggled to think of something, anything, to serve as a name.

 

"I am… Stride…. r."

 

"Strider?"

 

"Yes!  Strider.  That is my name."

 

The hobbit did not look convinced but he didn’t press it.  “Well, Mr. Strider, I’ve been terribly rude, please forgive my lack of manners.  But I must say, I wasn’t expecting any men at my doorstep, at any hour, let alone one so late as this!”

 

That, he could reply to.  “I come on behalf of one you count as friend, Gandalf the Grey.  He sends his regard, but he could not stay.”

 

“Gandalf!”  The hobbit’s eyes lit up at that, and he swung the door open further.  “Well, any friend of Gandalf is a friend of mine.  Please, come in!”

 

They did not correct his usage of the words “friend” and “Gandalf” in the same sentence, but frowned somewhat all the same.  They were still rather embarrassed at having stumbled over a name.  Strider?  Ugh, it would have to do.  Hopefully hobbits did not know much of men and their practices, to know that such a title was … odd.

 

//

 

Bag End had seen quite a few of the Big Folk since Bilbo made it his home, but none such as this.  This… Strider fellow, whoever he was, looked a bit more dwarfish than man, to be honest.  Not a scrape of his clothes had any cleanliness about them, all ragged and torn and aged.  And was that blood?  The man had a hood pulled over his face and scruff covering his cheeks, but beyond that, Bilbo could not make much of him.

 

He was strange, that much was certain, but then Bilbo was strange by his own people’s reckoning.  As he’d said, any friend of Gandalf’s. 

 

Bilbo led the man into his front parlor.  All of a sudden he realized it was quite the mess, with maps and books all spread about, hardly suitable for company.  Cheeks flushing, Bilbo set about straightening the place as quick as he could, trying at least to make room for some tea.  “Terribly sorry, wasn’t expecting visitors, if you’ll let me –“

 

“It’s fine,” The voice came nearer than he’d supposed.  Bilbo jumped, spinning to see Strider had crossed half the room in almost complete silence.  “I apologize for coming unannounced.”

 

“Yes, well,” Bilbo gave a shrug.  “Habit of Gandalf’s.  I’ve grown somewhat accustomed to it.”  Under the shadow of the hood, he saw those thin lips twist into a smile.  Well, good.  Not completely cold-hearted.  “Now, please, take a seat, and can I get you something to eat?  Or drink perhaps?”

 

“No it’s – fine,” Something tight in his voice made Bilbo stutter in his footsteps, glancing back.  He seemed dreadfully uptight.  Constantly fidgeting and glancing about, not taking advantage of the seat Bilbo had pulled back.  And… glancing downward, Bilbo saw a scabbard hanging from his belt. 

 

“Oh,” He said quietly, arms dropping.  “You’re one of _those_ friends.”  A sigh followed his words.  “One adventure, hardly two years away, and now it’s all anyone can seem to think about!”  Because undoubtedly, Gandalf promised this man some sort of assistance in the form of Bilbo, because Bilbo had already proven himself as a Great Adventurer, hadn’t he?  What a shame it was, the Shire folk thought.  Bilbo would refute it, but he was having a hard time letting the adventuring thoughts go himself, as those scattered maps would tell.

 

“I’m… sorry?”

 

The stranger’s voice brought Bilbo back to himself.  He truly did seem contrite, if the guilt ridden slouch of his shoulders and darkened tone of voice meant anything.

 

“No, don’t be, it’s not your fault,” Sighing once more, Bilbo turned back into the parlor, taking the chair nearest the fireplace.  “I’m the one who ran off adventuring, and look what’s it got me.”  A whole heap of trouble and heartache, that’s what.  But that didn’t bear thinking of.  “What’s happened?  Another dragon causing trouble?”

 

“Thankfully not,” The man said with enough sincerity that Bilbo wondered if there were any more dragons around to cause trouble.  That was not good at all!  “This trouble, I am afraid, falls closer to home,”

 

With those words, Strider finally took the open seat Bilbo had pulled out for him.  It was the armchair Gandalf always used, so it fit him fine.  It was only once he’d sat that the man finally removed his cowl.

 

The sight hit him like a blow to the heart, and left him reeling for longer than a moment.  Slate-grey eyes, cheek bones cut finely and angled high, heavy set brows and long, dark hair… and that voice, which hearing now Bilbo heard an echo of another time, of another grizzled baritone which spoke so ominously and deeply.  But mostly it was the eyes which did him in.

 

There was such depth to them, such heart, that Bilbo felt he might get lost just looking at them.  Here was a man who could hardly be older than Bilbo in the ways of his people, yet he felt like such a child gazing into those weary, worldly eyes.  There was wisdom in them, and compassion, and strength sharp and cold like steel.

 

It was Thorin Oakenshield all over again – a beautiful, powerful, magnetic force, drawing him in against his own good sense.  This stranger, this Strider, had not even spoken, yet Bilbo knew he would follow this man to whatever end.

 

“I come with grave tidings,” Strider began.  “Word has reached my people of an imminent attack upon the Shire.”

 

“An attack?”  Suddenly Bilbo was glad he hadn’t made tea.  It would’ve ended up all over his guest.  “But from who?  And why?”

 

“’Who’ is easy enough.  Though the Battle of Five Armies dealt a great deal of damage to the goblin armies, they are not defeated.  Currently they are amassing around the borders of the Shire, aiming to prepare an invasion.”

 

This – this was – horror sunk deep into his chest, chilled his bones, almost stopped his heart.  “I can’t imagine why!  What could we have that they would possibly want?”

 

“Resources, supplies, which they are in dire need of.”  Strider offered.  “The Shire is not well defended, not for war.  It offers an easy target.”  Strider’s grey eyes glanced away.  “There is another possible reason.”

 

Frowning, Bilbo felt his fear grow into irritation.  “Well?”

 

Strider glanced back.  “It may be you they target.”

 

If he thought he was cold before, well…  “Me?”  Practically squeaking, Bilbo leapt out of his chair and started to pace.  “Whatever for?”

 

“You made yourself an enemy of them, and acted as a key member of Thorin Oakenshield’s Company.  Without you, Erebor would not have been reclaimed.”  Turned away as he was, Bilbo could not have seen the clear admiration on the man’s face.  He’d of blushed if he had.  “Revenge against you may, in some fashion, inform their plans.”

 

Bilbo thought of his luckily very short time in Goblin Town.  The horrors there, the bloodshed, the depravity… to think of that, being brought here… of a war making its way into the Greenfields, Hobbiton, Michel Delving… because he had stood against the Goblins? 

 

“Please, Mister Strider,” Bilbo finally said as he turned to face the man.  “Tell me everything.”

 


	2. The Old Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarves come ever closer to the Shire, and spend some time in Buckland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the last (now edited) chapter for notes on how I've decided to handle Aragorn's pronouns. Thanks for the feedback everyone!
> 
> WARNING: This chapter contains mentions of and allusions to forced marriage and rape. No actual description or discussion though.

The Shire was not a place known for its dangers; though its history was not without bloodshed, most folk considered it a peaceful place.  But for a few wild animals and the petty grudges of neighbors, the Shire saw very little in the way of trouble.

 

The land just outside it, however, was a different story.

 

To the east, beyond the Brandywine River, stood the grave woodland called the Old Forest.  Hobbits knew better than to enter under its limbs, let alone linger too long in its shadow.  Few were brave enough to so much as walk it by and glance its way.  The hobbits of Buckland, being somewhat braver and more aggressive than their western cousins, took to living just beside the wood, past the Hay Wall.  But even they wouldn’t dare tarry within the woods too long.

 

Anyone with any experience with forests, or a lick of sense, might simply look at the Old Forest and know something was wrong.  There was a foul stench to it, a reeking air which overtook all.  The shadows seemed too dark, the trees too grim. 

 

But then, dwarves were never too keen for trees, or growing things.  Their hearts were in the stone, the earth, beneath the ground.  Perhaps it is for that reason that the company of dwarves coming from Erebor came to camp for the night before the Old Forest, and never sensed that something was amiss.

 

There were twelve of them, all in all.  They came on foot, walking down the road from Bree, with the Old Forest to the left of them as they passed.  It was late night; the moon in her full glory shone above in the sky, with nary a cloud to be seen.  The dwarves were a loud, merry bunch, laughing and carousing, and they had plenty of reason to.  It had been a long few years, with many pains and heartaches, and now, well, … it felt like coming home.

 

It had begun in the Shire, and so it would end.  That the dwarves had sworn, renaming themselves Bilbo’s Company, for it was in his interest they sought the Shire.  Not a dwarf among them did not carry some grief and guilt for what had transpired at the end of their quest; and none more so than their former leader.  So Bilbo’s Company set out to make right with their smallest, dearest companion, with cheer and hope in their hearts.

 

And a song on their lips.

_“Far over the misty mountains cold,_

_To valleys sweet, and ruins old,_

_We walk along singing our song,_

_To find our dear beloved …. Bowl?”_

  
Fili looked to Kili with an eyebrow cocked.  “Bowl?”

 

Rather flustered, Kili shrugged.  “It rhymed with cold!”  He insisted.  “Sort’ve.  I didn’t know how else to end it!”

 

“It’s supposed to end with ‘hobbit’!”

 

“What rhymes with ‘hobbit’?” 

 

“You were off beat, besides!”

 

“Now, now, lads,” Before their argument could gain any real heat, between the two twins came a third dwarf; Bofur, who swung an arm around each and pulled them close.  “No offence meant, but perhaps the song writing should be left to the bards, hmm?  Though it was a lovely attempt, Kili.”

 

The younger blushed and glanced away, but did not retort.

 

“I’ve had enough of singing,” Dwalin, in front of the three of them, grumbled.  “Can we not have a moment’s peace and quiet?”

 

“Course not,” His sister, Balin, shook her head.  “With these folk, what did you expect?”

 

Now, if you’ve any previous knowledge of these fellows and their adventurers, you might be wondering why it is that Balin has been called a woman.  It is the sorry lot of dwarves to be misunderstood by many, not limited to hobbits, in their ways and mannerisms.  For dwarven women are much like dwarven men, and oft are mistaken for them.  The Company had, in fact, many men and women and others besides.

 

Dwalin continued to grumble, clearly irritated as was his typical state – until, on his other side, another dwarf approached.  This dwarf came closer to him, until they walked close enough they brushed one another with each stride.  This closeness calmed the taller dwarf, and he quieted down.  And Thorin, beside him, smiled to Balin, who gave a smirk in reply.

 

But after a short while, this closeness came to cause trouble for Thorin.  He had been, for most of the trip, rather weak, given his horrid injuries.  For the most part, he was able to mask this weakness, to press on.  Now, close as he was to Dwalin, there was no hiding it when pain raced up his legs and he stumbled, giving a quiet hiss.

  
The taller dwarf was in front of him in an instant.  “What’s wrong?  Are you alright?”

 

“I’m fine – fine!”  He insisted, but by this point all the dwarves had slowed.  Soon after Dwalin, his young nephews were fussing over him, and then Oin came barreling over pushing them all aside.

 

“Away with you, all of you!”  They said – for Oin was one of those folk who lived as neither man nor woman, as some dwarves do.  “Let me see you, now,” Their voice gentled when they came to stand before Thorin, who found after hiding so much pain for so long, he was having a hard time continuing to. 

 

“Should we make camp?”  Balin, beside her brother, asked.  Oin did not even look up before muttering in the affirmative.  Indignant, Thorin started to protest, but the healer held up a finger to silence him.

 

“You need rest, and one more night before reaching the Shire will hurt nobody,” Oin insisted.  Thorin, however, felt ready to differ.  It was as if every moment he tarried might kill him, it pained him so – to think of Bilbo, so close yet so far – Bilbo, to whom Thorin owed so much, and whom he had wronged so gravely –

 

“Come, come on,” Oin began to pull upon his arm gently half carrying him to the camp site the others were throwing together.  “You’ll be no good to Bilbo half-dead.”

 

That much was true.  So, Thorin let himself be led to the camp, and set down against a hastily prepared bed-roll, feeling suddenly very tired.  He was asleep with a few minutes time, to his physician’s relief.  The physician, however, still had some very worried family members to deal with.

 

When Oin stood, they found four dwarves surrounding them: two agitated, worried old warriors – one only slightly calmer than the other – and two very clearly upset young dwarves.

 

“How is he, really?”  Kili began, just in front.  “Is he going to be okay?”  A bustle of other voices cut in, but Oin silenced all of them by holding up a single hand.

 

With a sigh, they replied.  “I told him, it was foolish and hasty to be going on the road again so soon, but he wouldn’t listen.  We all know the stubbornness of Durin’s heirs well by now, I should think, and he’s the worst of the lot.  He needs rest, and he won’t get it until we’re done with all this wandering!”

 

It was true; only two months had passed before Thorin decided to leave, against the good advice of many of his healers and councilors, Oin included.  But the former King would not be dissuaded, and so he went.

 

“He’s not going to die, is he?”  Kili started, horror clear in his face and voice.  The words sent a jolt through Dwalin, behind him, the only response the stoic dwarf would give.

 

“No, lad, no,” Oin lifted a hand to press against Kili’s shoulder, supportively.  “He’s very ill, and tired, but he’s not about to keel over just yet.  But I will feel much better once I’ve got him back in bed!”

 

More concerns were raised and addressed, more worries assayed, until Oin threw up their hands and said enough, sending them all on their way.  Thorin would get no rest with so many worry worts hanging about.  They dispersed, setting about with preparing the camp.

 

“Hey, Ori,” Bombur, sitting next to his bag, turned to the younger dwarf.  The boy gave a jump; his head was clearly in the clouds.  “Would you mind fetching some wood for the fire?”  With a quick nod, he agreed, and Bombur thanked him as he turned and took up the fire ax from a nearby supply bag.

 

Ori was often on wood chopping duty.  He was the youngest, with little to offer but his scant scholarly expertise, and little of that given his few years of training.  To him, and Fili and Kili, fell most of the grunt work, including the chopping and hauling of wood for the evening fires. 

 

Ori did not mind.  These dwarves were his family now, and he would help however he could.  So, chin upturned with determined pride, he hefted the ax and approached the nearby forest.

 

It was dismally dark under those tall trees.  Unlike most dwarves, Ori was not especially lacking in fondness for plant life.  He found forests could be very peaceful, beautiful.  This forest was neither, even at first glance.  For a moment, he recalled quite clearly entering Mirkwood, and gave a shudder.

 

Still, this was his job, and he would do it.  With a deep breath, Ori entered the Old Forest.

 

It was darker still once he stepped into its shadow, and the memories of Mirkwood surged forward.  How he managed to continue on with such horrors in mind was a testament to the boy’s bravery.  The trees were tall, thick, and grew strangely, in odd shapes and twists and turns, all close together.  The way they entwined with one another closed off the paths Ori could take, until it almost felt as if the wood were forcing him in one direction…

 

Chilled to the bone, Ori stopped, ready to take what he could find and get out of the horrid place.  He took to the nearest tree and got to work, and in time, had a passable stack of firewood.  Putting his ax on his belt, he knelt to pick up the stack, but something upon the ground stayed him.  The boy frowned.  It glittered and shone, not like any tree limb or plant.  Brushing the leaves away, Ori’s eyes widened when he found himself looking upon a dwarven carving.

 

It was a finely crafted necklace, with some wear upon it; clearly it had been resting upon the ground here for some time, weathering the forces of nature.  It was a common sight to Ori.  In the years after Erebor fell, the dwarves spread out through the land, plying their crafts to men and elves for much-needed gold.  Jewelry such as this was sold in marketplaces far and wide.  How had it come to fall here, Ori wondered, and what had happened to the poor soul it had once belonged to?

 

The curious scholar in him burned for answers, but Ori could not linger.  Pocketing the necklace, he picked up his stack of wood, turned – and nearly ran straight into a Hobbit!

 

Both dwarf and hobbit gave simultaneous yelps, leaping at the sight of one another.  “Gracious me!”  The little fellow put his hand over his chest.  “What are you doing, sir?  Lingering about in the Old Forest, this time of night!  Asking for trouble, you are!”

 

“I – I’m just getting some wood, for my family, for the fire, you see,” Ori stammered, quite taken aback.  “And what are you doing?”

 

“What am I – what am I doing, he asks?”  The hobbit sputtered.  “Here I am, a Bounder of the Shire-Folk, getting asked by a dwarf what am I doing, and this close to Buckland, well I’ll tell you sir, what I am doing is saving your skin, mark my words.  Come, and quick!  Don’t take a single piece of that wood out of these accursed trees, isn’t safe, not at all!”  Then, with a heavy nod of his head, the hobbit turned and began walking off out of the woods.  Ori considered what would happen if he returned with no wood – but he looked about him, and had to admit the Hobbit might be right.  Ori dropped the wood and went running after the hobbit.

 

When the Hobbit, followed by Ori, burst out upon the dwarven camp, there was quite a commotion.  Everyone leapt to their feet, confused by the sudden ruckus, and the loudly aggravated voice which quickly woke Thorin.

 

“What in the name of all that’s green and good are you doing?”  The little Hobbit had a voice much larger than himself, and it took all the dwarves back.  “Camping right here on the road in front of the Old Forest itself, as if it weren’t a thing at all!”

 

It had been quite a long time since any of them had been accosted by a hobbit, and for a moment all were silent in the face of it.  Dwalin found his voice first.  He grunted.  “And what’re we supposed to do?  The Shire’s at least another half-day’s walk!”

 

“Aye, it is,” The hobbit admitted.  “But Newbury’s hardly a half-mile away.”  The news of a town so close by startled all of them.  “Or did you think all hobbits lived in the Shire?”

 

“They don’t?”  Kili muttered to Fili, who merely shrugged.

 

//

 

Newbury was home to hobbits, all right, and some of the very best kind.  Being on the outskirts of the Shire, these hobbits were more familiar with the other folk of Middle-Earth, and kinder to strangers and wanderers.  Dangers lurked closer, for Newbury stood on that northern part of Buckland which came up against the Old Forest, with only the Hay Wall standing between those brave hobbits and the horrors that lurked within. 

 

Yet it held less horror to them.  Merchants and travelers took the road through the Bonfire Glen out to the Bree-Land on the northern side; hunters, foragers, and woodcutters earned their living from what the forest gave.  It was a queer, eerie place, but it was as much a part of Buckland as the Brandywine.

 

This was where the Bounder led Bilbo’s Company, and they were grateful for it.  Warm beds, hot food, the pleasures of an inn to stay in, all these lifted the dwarves spirit’s.  They’d all been rather disappointed to have to wait another day to see Bilbo, but at least they would not have to spend another night sleeping on the cold ground.

 

Well, perhaps they’d have liked to stay at the inn, but not a hobbit there would let them.  For while some hobbit folk might disapprove of adventurers and their ilk, the hobbits of Buckland loved a good adventure.  To think that they would not have heard of Mad Baggins and his quest with twelve dwarves to fight a dragon was, well, unthinkable.  And so every hobbit in Newbury knew who this company was, and soon, every hobbit in Buckland knew they were there.

 

They were not halfway up the hill to the inn when a young hobbit came running up to them.  “Sirs!  Sirs, please!”  The young tween called out.  He slid to a halt and bowed, so dizzy he half fell over before righting himself.  “Lords of Erebor, I am honored to welcome you to Buckland, on behalf of the Brandybuck family, and to invite you to stay with us at Brandy Hall, by request of the Master of Buckland.”

 

This was all said very quickly in a breathless, anxious voice, so very little could be understood.  But Thorin, who was quite adept in the language of politics, understood the tone of such a request if not the words.  He gave a nod and asked the boy to lead on, and he did so happily, at a much slower pace.

 

They walked through Newbury, causing quite a stir, with hobbits all about staring and gossiping.  Some would glance away when the dwarves took to noticing them, but then, these were Brandybucks and a fair amount of Tooks.  They had no qualms gossiping, seen or no.  For to have real heroes walking about them, heroes from another land, dragon-fighters, was a wonder.

 

Brandy Hall was a rather large hobbit hole, home to the Master of Buckland and his extensive family.  Each and every one wished to greet all the dwarves, and quite a few greeted more than one of them twice, or more than that, for they were all quite taken with them.  Bombur was especially popular, and was greeted by each and every tween perhaps three times.

 

By the time they were finally allowed in and all the hand shaking was done, each dwarf was a bit rattled.  But the spread of food awaiting them cleared their grumpiness quick.  The best hobbits had to offer in the way of food was laid before them, across a long wooden table in the center of a great dining hall, in which two other tables were filled by members of the family.

 

The Master of Buckland, Rorimac Brandybuck – Old Rory, as he was better known – sat at one end of the dwarven table.  It was he who greeted them at the door, and led Thorin in and about the halls, though the tour was short, for supper was ready and hobbits do not put much ahead of food.  Menegilda, Lady of the House, sat at the opposite end, between Bofur and Bombur.  The rest of the dwarves spread out between them, and all enjoyed the feast.

 

“Thank you for allowing us to stay with your family,” Thorin told his host, inclining his head, before he’d begun his meal.  He was starving, and it smelt divine, but he remembered his manners.

 

“You are most welcome,” Old Rory said with a smile upon his face.  “And you are welcome here anytime henceforth!  Bilbo Baggins is a brother of mine, and any friend of my brother’s is a friend of this house.”

 

“Bilbo’s your brother?”  Leaning forward, Dori addressed the end of the table.

 

“Well,” Rory rolled his hand.  “He’s the brother of my sister’s husband, and that’s brother enough for me.”  Then he smiled, and pulled out his pipe.  “Some may call him queer, and some may call him nastier things than that, but Bilbo Baggins is a good hobbit.”

 

“Do you know him well, then?”  Thorin asked.

 

“Well as any hobbits can,” Menegilda answered him.  Her tone was somewhat sullen, almost glum, as she looked down to her plate.  Some of the dwarves turned to her questioningly, and when she noticed she collected herself.  “Forgive me, I do not mean to speak ill of him.  He is… very withdrawn, for a hobbit.”

 

“Aye, that he is, nowadays” Rory admitted with a nod and a sigh.  “Never was quite the same, after Bungo passed.”

 

“I’m sensing there’s a story here,” Balin, on the opposite side of Rory, spoke to him. 

 

“Who’s Bungo?”  Gloin asked.

 

Old Rory had the attention of all the dwarves there, now; for though they loved Bilbo, they knew little of him.  He seemed to notice their curiosity, for he drew himself back, and spoke with a loud, clear voice.  “Bungo Baggins,” He began, “Was the eldest child of Mungo and Laura Baggins.  Now, we hobbits have come quite a ways, and our lands are no longer so strictly separated by family lines, but every clan has their – differences.”  He hesitated.  “The Baggins have always been a somewhat uptight sort.”  A bit of laughter quietly echoed out amongst the dwarves, and Rory smiled.  “Well-to-do sorts, picky, keen about propriety and the traditional way of doing things, always on about being proper,” The more he spoke, the more the dwarves laughed and smiled, and he seemed to know it for the gleam in his eyes. 

 

Thorin, he smiled softly at the description, thinking of Bilbo and all the ways he’d been just like that – and all the ways he had not.

 

“So it came,” Rory continued.  “As a mighty great surprise when Bungo married Belladona Took.”

 

“More surprising what she accepted!”  Menegilda interjected sharply.

 

“True, true,” Her husband said.  “See, Tooks are more our kind of folk.  Adventurous, wild, taken to water and boating.  Belladona was the daughter of the clan head, and the wildest of all of them.  Even went on an adventure or two with that wandering wizard friend of yours.” 

 

“There had not been a more ill-suited match in the Shire in a century,” Menegilda picked up.  She had her hands crossed, elbows on the table, a faraway look in her eye.  “Many a naysayer talked ill of the two till the day they were wed, and then some.  When Bilbo came, he seemed to be proof that they were not meant to be.”  That got the dwarves grumbling.  “We hobbits have many children, four or five at least, but Belladona and Bungo only ever had Bilbo.”

 

“And they were happy, too!”  Old Rory insisted, and his wife nodded fervently in agreement.  “Let the gossips talk, but they were happy.  Leave people be.  Achk.”  Arguments from bygone days seemed to have risen in him, for his face flushed and he frowned fiercely.  “They got on well enough.  Bungo built a wonderful home for them, I’m sure you’ve seen it - ?”

 

“Bag End,” Thorin said, remembering its wide tunnels, the warm hearth, the fondness that seemed to be built into the walls.

 

“Yes, Bag End.”  Old Rory smiled, perhaps remembering it himself.  “They had some good years there.  Bungo, he was a merchant, and he would travel through here and use our paths in the Old Forest to get to Bree.  Much faster than the road, and if you know your way, safer too.  No brigands brave the woods to rob here, no siree.”

 

“And Mrs. Baggins,” Fili began, “Did see keep adventuring?”

 

“From time to time,” Menegilda replied.  “But her heart was at home from the moment they married.  Though, she did take her sword with her every time Bungo went to Bree through the Old Forest, and Bilbo would go with them.”

 

“Until the day Belladona did not go,” Old Rory spoke with grim finality in his voice.  All the dwarves fell quiet at that.  “She was sick.  Bungo had to go, no way out of it, and Bilbo was too young to fend for himself without his mother healthy and up and about.  I’d have taken the boy in, gladly, but this was Bilbo.  He was an adventurous lad in those days.”

 

“Truly?”  Dwalin asked with some incredulity.

 

“Oh, aye,” Rory smiled.  “Always running about in the woods, looking for elves!”  That brought groans from quite a few of the dwarves.  “Oh yes he was an adventurer.  The spitting image of his dad but his mother’s wandering heart, for certain.  Not a day went by he wasn’t out in the fields or the forests, roaming and singing.”

 

“But, this day, now, when Bungo went alone with Bilbo,” Old Rory kept on, his voice growing dimmer.  “He did not meet his contacts in Bree when he was meant to.  Word was sent to us, and immediately we knew something had to be wrong.  The Shire-Folk, those well to do Bagginses, well they wouldn’t have a thing to do with the Old Forest.”  The hobbit grumbled as if the words put a bad taste in his mouth.  “My kin, we went out into the woods to find them.”

 

“We found the wagon first, abandoned.  Didn’t seem to have been a struggle, but there were signs of two hobbits heading out into the woods.  We don’t know what happened.  Only that hours after our search began, we found young Bilbo.”

 

“Was he alright?”  Thorin hardly realized the seriousness in his voice, the way he had angled forward as if hearing this tale was more important than all else.  “His father?”

 

Old Rory shook his head.  “Never found him.  Bilbo had gotten himself caught in that nasty part of the woods the spiders claim; what saved him was his size, as he’d squeezed under a few tree roots out of their reach.  We killed those we could and scared off the rest, long enough to take him home.”

 

“You never heard much of adventuring out of Bilbo Baggins after that.”  The old fellow sighed.  “Imagine that sort of thing, to one so young, might be enough to scare the heart right out of you,”

 

So the story ended, and the mood at the table had dimmed darkly.  A cloud had come over Thorin’s face; the food in his mouth tasted of ash.  He ate, mechanically, hardly noticing as the talk picked up again on lighter things, and the darkness lifted.  He could think only of little Bilbo, lost in the woods, surrounding by danger.  Little Bilbo, losing his father there, never to find him again.

 

“Oi!”  Thorin jumped at Old Rory’s exclamation, but the hobbit was looking at him – for he’d gripped his wooden goblet so tight, it cracked in his hand, sending liquid pouring out.  Flushing, Thorin apologized profusely, but the hobbits would have none of it, merely quoting dwarven strength and insisting they fetch him another, and please sir let us take care of the mess –

 

Thorin sighed and let them at it, overcome by hobbit politeness.  Under the table, a hand gripped his; he looked up to Dwalin, beside him, a grieving look in his own eyes.  Thorin squeezed his hand in reply.

 

//

 

In a few hours’ time, the dwarves settled for the night.  They were led to a hall of rooms, each with a few beds, and the various families of the company divided off for the night.  In the midst of the good nights and the evening chatter, Nori slipped away, back down the stairs, and out the nearest door he could find.

 

Mahal, but it was crowded in there.  So many people, and so – enclosed.  Hobbit holes always made Nori uncomfortable, but this one?  He could not take a step without tripping over a young one or being spoken to as if he were some, some _hero_.

 

At that Nori laughed aloud, settling on a hill outside the house, pulling out his pipe.  Hero.  Nori son-of-none was no hero.  No, he was just a dwarf that got lucky.  Signed up for a suicide mission to protect his idyllic little brother and somehow managed to survive.

 

He still couldn’t quite believe that.  Couldn’t believe any of this.  It just did not make sense, did not fit into the view of the world he’d always had.  Never again would he have to steal to survive.  Durin’s ass, he wouldn’t even have to work to survive if he did not want to.  He was wealthy enough to buy the damn Shire, and it made him uncomfortable enough to shiver.

 

What would he do with all that coin?  He’d only ever had enough to put a little bread in his belly, maybe snitch something nice for Ori or Dori from time to time.  Never in his life had Nori owned a thing he did not need.  This was entirely new to him, and he had no idea what to do with it, or how to feel about it.

 

So, like all else he did not like, he ignored it, hoping it would go away, knowing full well it would not.  But at least now, away from Erebor, he was far from that thrice-damned gold, and could try and forget about it.   

 

But in not dwelling on his own problems, he found his mind shifting to the problems of others.  Bilbo Baggins.  Nori had always thought him somewhat spoiled, living in that fine house, so concerned about dishes and doilies and nice things that sat and collected dust.  Things Nori could’ve sold and lived off of for a week at least.  There was certainly no little animosity in his heart towards the fellow, for a time, out of simply jealousy at having lived such a charmed life.

 

Charmed, indeed.  Watching his father torn apart by spiders, most like, at such a young age.  Now Nori felt guilty for ever having been spiteful of Bilbo, after all he’d done, and what he’d lost.

 

Footsteps behind him made Nori tense, as he always did.  But he knew who this was by their footfalls.  Sure enough, Dwalin son of Fundin came to stand beside him, arms crossed, glowering out at the hills as if they had insulted his pride. 

 

Though he tried not to, Nori could not keep himself from growing stiff and nervous in the presence of Dwalin.  Captain of the Guard of Ered Luin, he’d been, and though Nori’d never come across him during his time there, something in his blood raged against being so passively vulnerable around a _Guard Captain._ It was in his bones by now, this fear of guardsmen, this need to be ready to escape at all times – but Dwalin was good, he was all but kin now, after all the times they’d saved each other’s skins, what they’d survived together.  He told himself they were at peace now, and Dwalin could not arrest him for crimes he hadn’t any proof of, and that was that.

 

As it was, he needn’t of worried, for Dwalin was fond indeed of young Nori.  He knew he was a thief, of course.  None in the company did not know, for he carried the signs. 

 

Every dwarf’s beard and braids uniquely reflect their identity and station, and Nori’s said quite enough.  He had no clan, no family, being an outcast or an orphan.  He had no trade, as he had no family to teach him.  All his braids would tell was that he was _bij-khuzdûn,_ and it was that which first made Dwalin notice the young one. 

 

Yes, it was true that dwarves had more men than women – but dwarves did not adhere as Men did to those strict lines of body type and gender.  For dwarves, gender meant many things.  One might have no gender, or many genders.  The secret to knowing was all in their hair.  And Nori, by his braids, was a man; a man who could bear children.

 

Dwarves were ever looking for those who could bear them heirs.  There were simply too few dwarves being born, after all the travesties, the wars, which had taken them.  So many had perished, with the old lingering on to watch the young waste themselves in battle. 

 

In his time as Captain of the Guard, Dwalin had seen many like Nori.  For some reason, unwanted, or uncared for.  Perhaps his parents had died, or they had simply abandoned him.  Left with no protection in the world, and no way to fend for himself without a trade to earn coin with, the only option left to him was thievery.  For one so vulnerable as that, to openly proclaim themselves as _bij-khuzdûn..._  

 

Even considering what could have happened set a fire in Dwalin’s bones.  Dwarves who would prey on those like Nori, those were folk not worthy of being called dwarves.  They should all die out before letting their family lines continue through such evil practices.  Forcing dwarves without families or life-lines to marry them and bear them children!  May Mahal strike them dead!

 

Nori could not know that the ire growing in Dwalin’s eyes and posture was for him, not because of him, and so seeing Dwalin grow anger made him more nervous yet.  He considered standing and going back into the house, but he did not wish to do that, either.

 

“Sorry,” Dwalin, seeming to realize Nori’s growing anxiety, breathed out quietly.  “Sorry, lad.”  His anger was a fierce thing to tame, but he would not let it hurt the man.  He had likely been hurt enough.  _No more thinking of that, the past is past and he is safe now…_ Was he?  Were any of them? It was a strange concept for Dwalin, so used to constantly being aware of danger, of thinking of the worst and how it could happen and how to stop it.  It was not a pleasant thing.

 

Nori looked up at him nervously, through half lidded eyes.  “You all right?”

 

After a moment, Dwalin shrugged.  “I will be.”  He sat beside Nori, and pulled out his own pipe.

 

The younger dwarf eyed him up and down.  There was some appreciation in that gaze, and some contempt.  Ah, that jealousy again.  Always wanting what he did not have.  If he’d been born a man the way Dwalin had… _stop this._ No what-if’s would change his own life, and ill thoughts of the dwarf beside him were misplaced and uncalled for.  Dwalin had been nothing but kind to him, and few in Nori’s life ever had been. 

 

Truthfully, he found Dwalin very pleasing to the eye.  Tall, rugged, full of the gruff roughness that dwarves so appreciated.  He was a fine looking dwarf indeed, and it was a wonder he did not have suitors running out the mountain at this point – especially since he now had wealth added to his fame, his prowess in war, and his looks.

 

But then, it seemed that the dwarf had something going on with Durin’s heir, or Nori was no thief.  (Well, he was not anymore, but…)  They were quite close, sharing rooms at the inns, sleeping beside one another at camp, walking almost arm in arm.  They were not wed – they’d have the shared beads in their beards, if they were – but they were clearly in love.  Nori wondered how the hobbit fit into this picture.

 

Clearly, Thorin cared for the Halfling as well.  Love was written upon his face whenever he spoke of Bilbo.  Dwarves were not quite so free as elves when it came to such things.  Dwarves were inclined to couple with one or two others in their lifetime.  (Elves could have as many as five to ten lovers at a time, so Nori had heard.)  Perhaps the three of them were a triad – or perhaps Thorin and Dwalin pined for a lover who did not recognize or share their regard.  Maybe that was the truth of this trip; an attempt at courting.

 

In his heart of hearts, thinking of things he would share with none save himself, Nori wondered if the group would consider allowing him some place in their kin.  It was foolish, of course.  What would Dwalin, Hero of Azanulbizar, ever want with him?  Why would Thorin Oakenshield ever consider sharing his lover with a thief, son-of-none? 

 

Dwalin and Nori sat upon the hill, each nursing their own dark thoughts, into darker hours.  Within the hobbit hole, Thorin sat alone in his and Dwalin’s shared room, nursing dark thoughts of his own; of gold, and dragons, and sins he had committed. 

 

And miles away, across grassy green fields, a hobbit sat talking with a ranger…


	3. Arriving at Bag End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarves finally make it to Hobbiton, but there are complications.

It is considered polite, in Hobbit society, to respect your neighbor’s privacy.  A good hobbit should mind their own business, and keep their nose out of others.  That was how respectable hobbits went about.  But the truth of it was, whatever the social rule might be, hobbits are exceptionally curious creatures.  What they might say, as a general rule, was not always how it they went about with their lives.  And what did it matter, after all, so long as they weren’t caught?

 

Hamfast Gamgee was not a rude sort.  He did not pry where he should not, and did not poke about where he wasn’t meant to.  But every hobbit has their limits.  Living next door to Mad Baggins himself made it something of a struggle not to hang around his windows all day.  What was going on inside Bag End, folk always wondered.  Bilbo Baggins was a reclusive sort with a penchant for mischief.

 

So it was that one evening, while tending his garden, Hamfast happened to see some such mischief right before his eyes.  Coming down the road past his little hobbit hole was a man, no doubt about it, covered in dirt and muck and hooded, like some foul brigand from Bree.  Hamfast had half a mind to go off looking for the Shirriffs when he saw him, until he realized the man’s destination.  When the stranger turned into Bag End, and was let inside, Hamfast faltered.

 

What was going on in Bag End?

 

He immediately walked over to the window without thinking, but caught himself.  “Hamfast Gamgee,” he said, “What fool nonsense has gotten into your head?”  The poor fellow tried forcing himself to returning to his potatoes, but he couldn’t make his feet budge.  Mad Baggins meeting with Bree-Folk late at night?  Was another adventure about to go on?  Was trouble afoot?  These questions eventually broke Hamfast’s will, and he crept quietly to the open window nearest his line of property.

 

It was somewhat hard to hear anything, but from time to time, Hamfast could catch a line or two.  The man’s voice was deep, and hardest to hear, but Bilbo spoke quite loudly and clearly.

 

“Well, we – we should do something!”

 

Do something?  Was there another adventure in the works?  Frowning, Hamfast leaned closer.

 

“We could go see the Mayor, or – or the Thain himself!”

 

What’s this?  Something really troubling, to involve such important people!

 

“Or… maybe we should warn the people at the mines…”

 

Frowning deeper, Hamfast tried to piece it together.  What was going on?

 

“Yes, good evening to you…”

 

Only, it seemed they were done.  Pity.  Hamfast was left with more questions than he’d had before, and no way to answer them.  That was what he got for eavesdropping, he thought guiltily.  Ought to stick to his own business, he should.  So he toddled off, deciding to finish his work in the morning, and went to have some supper.

 

//

 

Dwalin’s estimate of a half-day’s walk through the Shire was a tad bit off.

 

For one, he did not consider Buckland, not knowing at the time that the Company would be staying there.  The shortest route to Hobbiton was the Great East Road, and to return to it, the group would have to trek ten miles north back to Newbury.  Then, it would be another fifty or so miles through the Shire itself, over the Brandywine Bridge,  through Stock, past Frogmorton, to Bywater, and finally, Hobbiton.  It was late into the night by the time the group stumbled up the path to Bag End, and they were all very tired.

 

So you can imagine their disappointment when they were told Bilbo Baggins was not at home.

 

When they came to the hobbit hole up on the hill, all the dwarves breathed happy sighs of relief, or let out bellowing joyous laughter, thrilled to finally be at the end of their journey.  The trip had not been so hard as the quest for Erebor, certainly, but it was still quite the journey.  To know that their friend was now so close was heartening to all of them.

 

Bofur was near the front of the group, having overtaken the rest in his excitement.  He’d always been especially fond of the little hobbit, and the idea of seeing him again had him walking in double-time.  So it was that he came upon Bag End first, and was the first to lay eyes upon the hobbit sitting impatiently upon the doorstep.

 

“Uh, Hullo,” Somewhat taken aback, Bofur came to a halt in the entryway.  The hobbit glanced up, surprise showing through the raise of her eyebrows.  Bofur gave a smile and a wave.  “Is Bilbo home?  We’re friends of his.”

  
The eyebrows went higher.  “Friends, indeed.”  The sharpness of her tone took Bofur somewhat by surprise.  “Well, I’m afraid he’s not at home, and has not been all day.  But I shall let him know you dropped by.”  And she gave a dismissive nod.

 

Bofur glanced back, to the rest of the group, who were coming up upon the path to Bag End.  “Well, you see, there’s a slight problem,” He began hesitantly.  “We can’t leave.”  They had nowhere else to stay, except perhaps an inn, and after all the distance they traveled, they could not give up now!

 

“Then you’re in the same boat as me, for neither can I.”  She huffed.  “Or, that is to say, I won’t.  It’s been months since Bilbo Baggins came back from that foolish venture and he’s been avoiding me all that time!  Well, I won’t stand for it.  One of us needs to act like a mature, rational hobbit, and if it isn’t him, then it shall have to be me!”

 

Bofur wasn’t quite sure what the little hobbit was on about, but she sure felt very passionately about it.  “That’s great,” He said.  “But do you think you could maybe point us in his direction?  Maybe a pub he frequents, a close friend?”

 

“Ha!”  She laughed at that.  Behind Bofur, the other dwarves began filing up towards the house.  “Bilbo Baggins, going drinking?  Or having friends at that?  No, I’ve no idea where he is.”

 

“You asking after Bilbo?”

 

The new voice had Bofur’s head spinning round, and many of the other dwarves as well.  Another hobbit was approaching from the house next door.  The first one stood up, walking towards him.  “Have you heard something, Hamfast?”  She asked.

 

“Aye, and nothing good, if you ask me,” The hobbit frowned.  “Some strange fellow came in to Bag End late last night.  Looked like Bree-Folk to me, one of those brigands most like.”  At that word, foul whispers went up amongst the dwarves.  Bofur, somewhat stunned, kept listening.  “He and Bilbo sat down and spoke for quite some time, though I – of course I did not mean to overhear, only – the window was open, and –‘

 

“Yes, yes, Hamfast, what did you hear?”  The lady hobbit gave a dry sigh and a roll of her eyes.

 

Hamfast, red faced, shrugged.  “Well, I think they might’ve gone to Michel Delving to speak to the Mayor.”  Bofur had no idea where that was, but it was a start.  “Or…”  Frowning, Hamfast continued.  “They also mentioned speaking to the Thain over in Tuckborough.  But then,” He put a finger to his chin.  “They mentioned Scary, as well.”

 

“Scary?”  Bofur let out a burst of giggles.  “That’s a place?”  He moved forward a bit as some of the other dwarves pushed their way ahead, Thorin included.  He came to stand near the door, listening to Hamfast. 

 

“Oh, aye, and been quite nasty of late, too.”  Hamfast nodded.  “Spiders been seen all over the fields around there.  Dreadful things.”

 

“Well, you call a place Scary, you’re inviting the nasty and dreadful there, aren’t you?”  He let out another laugh, ignoring Thorin’s exasperated gaze and Bombur’s elbow in his ribs.  “What?”

 

“What was the purpose in these plans?”  Thorin asked the hobbit.

“I’m not right sure, though Bilbo sounded rather upset about it.”  Hamfast nodded.  “Aye, that man put the fear of something in him, to be sure.”  Bofur gave a shudder, his grip tightening on his weapon, and beside him, he felt Thorin stiffen.  Glancing up, he saw a dark look on his leader’s face, and imagined there was a similar expression on his own. 

“Bilbo’s in trouble?” Ori asked quietly from the back, anxiety clear in his tone.

“We’ve got to find him, now.”  Dwalin hefted his ax up, grimacing.

“I think you’re right, Master Dwarf,” the group turned as one to face the first hobbit, who was now standing at the door with a set of keys.  “And we’d best start here.”  With that, she unlocked the door, swung it open, and beckoned everyone inside.

Bofur hesitated on the sidelines next to her, watching the others walk in.  “If you could unlock the door the whole time, why wait outside?”

The woman’s already tight expression grew tighter.  “It is a matter of propriety.”  She insisted.  “But if Bilbo’s gotten himself into trouble again, then it simply must be done.”  With that, she followed after Gloin and went inside, and Bofur was quick to do the same.

Bag End looked much as it had when the dwarves first saw it.  But it was something of a mess.  Paper spread all about, books left in stacks about the fireplace, maps and charts out across the table.  The lady hobbit took all this in with growing horror and indignation.

Thorin saw these maps and felt a pang in his heart.  With trembling hands, he took one up.  It was an old map, of Erebor, before the dragon.  Certainly Bilbo had not gotten this in the Shire.  And why did he…?

Glancing about, Thorin saw that all the maps were in some way or another related to their journey.  Here was a map of Thranduil’s halls, here was a map of Rivendell, here the Misty Mountains.  Many of the texts and tomes were historical accounts of those realms.  There was even, to Thorin’s great shock, a historical work upon Azanulbizar, and himself! 

“What is this, a library?”  He heard Dwalin muttering behind him.  In something of a daze, Thorin turned and grabbed his shoulder, catching his attention.  The taller dwarf let out a curse when he saw the book.  “What’s he doing with something like that?”

“Some of these are ancient.”  The two turned as one to face Balin, who stood at another table, holding another book.  “And this, I am certain, had to come from Ered Luin.”  She was eying the book carefully, as if it might break. 

“But why?”  Kili frowned, holding another book as if it were a foreign object.  “What is he doing with all this?”

“Hmph!”  The lady hobbit gave a snort.  “Causing more trouble, most likely!  Run off in the blue without a warning, or any word at all to his relations!  Why, I’d not be surprised if he were planning to do so again.”

Thorin looked down to another map.  He could easily discern Bilbo’s scrawl in one corner, notes about the location.  Was he planning to leave again?  For what purpose, and to where?

Had he been planning on coming back to them?

Hope rose anew in Thorin’s heart, and more than ever he felt a desperate need to see and speak to Bilbo.  Setting down the book and map, he turned to the company.

“Wherever Bilbo is, we must find him, and quickly.”  He began.  At once, he had all the dwarves attention, and each and every one seemed to be just as eager.  “If he is in one of those places named by the hobbit, then we will simply have to search them all.”

“Now, wait just a minute!”  Oin stepped forward, shaking a finger.  “I hope you don’t think you’ll be doing any more gallivanting around just yet!”  A sinking feeling told Thorin that no, he wasn’t.

“Don’t worry, uncle,” Fili, approaching his side, gently nudged Thorin.  “We’ll take care of Bilbo till you’re well again.” 

“Perhaps not,” He said in reply.  Surprise came over the elder brother’s face.  “I have a task in mind for you and Kili.  A man journeying from Bree to the Shire stands out, surely someone would know him.  I need you two to discover what you can of him, if he means ill.”

“Right, of course,” Fili nodded, just as Kili approached.

“We’ll head out for Bree first thing tomorrow, uncle,” The younger promised.

“And you,” Oin began to begin another tirade, but Thorin held his hands up in surrender.

“Yes, I shall rest here,” He turned to the hobbit.  “If that is permissible with you, Miss…?”

She looked him over, somewhat reluctant, somewhat… intrigued?  And gave a slight nod.  “Lobelia Sackville-Baggins,” She started, before giving a slight curtsy. 

In reply, Thorin turned to face her, and gave a bow.  “Thorin Oakenshield, at your service.”  Then, one by one, all the dwarves turned and bowed before her, offering their service, and as each bowed her face grew hotter, and though she fidgeted and protested she stood patiently through the whole thing.

“The rest of you,” Once that was done, Thorin began to speak again.  “Shall have to split up and search out these places.”  And so he divided the groups and assigned them their duties, and with that the company settled in for the night.  Thorin was quite exhausted, and Oin saw him off straight to bed after a light meal.  The rest sat up and enjoyed themselves for a time, taking advantage of Bag End’s pantry once again, while Lobelia stood by marveling at the mess.

After dinner, the dwarves spread out amongst the house, most heading off to bed.  Ori sat up for a while, feeling quite awake.  Seeing those books spread out had opened a hunger in him, and he felt it was time to write.  It had been a while since he updated his journal on their adventures.  So he took a seat by the fireplace and began to write out his account.

For some time, he wrote in peace.  Then, out of nowhere, something bounced against the back of his head. The boy jumped, his pen running wild across the paper, and then he heard a familiar laugh as his half-brother collapsed into the armchair in front of him.

“Nori!”  Ori pretended to scowl but he did not quite have it in him.  Seeing Nori so joyful was a nice change.  The elder dwarf was throwing an orange about, catching it in one hand, then tossing it to the other. 

“Good evening, brother,” he grinned, and it was infectious.  Ori couldn’t help but laugh.

“You are incorrigible.”

“Seems like.”

They sat in silence after that, Nori allowing his brother to write.  He would await him to finish, patiently, then they’d talk about his writing, the journey, this and that.  Sometimes Nori would teach him things, like how to properly create a lock pick, or how to break a choke hold; and sometimes Ori would teach Nori how to properly cite academic resources, or how to create a map.  It was great fun.  Some of Ori’s greatest memories of the adventure came from those evening talks.

“There.”  Smiling, Ori glanced over the last page, gave a satisfied nod, and tucked the notebook away.  When he looked up, his brother was grinning again.  “What?”  The grin broke into a laugh.  “Was it something I said?”

“No, just you being you, little brother,” He smiled, and there was a devilish twinkle in his eye.  Ori had half a moment to think his brother looked a little too sly, before he realized what was coming, but it was too late.

“No, no don’t – ack!”  Nori was upon him, one arm around his neck (not too tight) the other digging into his head.  “NORI!” 

The tussle began and it was a good thing neither Lobelia nor Dori were there to see it; for Lobelia would have been quite upset by the rude display and in her cousin’s house, while Dori would’ve fretted madly over his youngest brother.  As it was, the both of them enjoyed themselves without any interruptions from others.

“Come on, remember what I taught you!”

Oh, yes, Ori remembered, but Nori was a master at this stuff.  Fighting had never been Ori’s strong suit, something his older brother was always concerned about.  Nori didn’t say it, but Ori could tell; this was his way of trying to look out for him.  But he wasn’t too worried about his fighting skills.  Nori – and Dori – would always be there for him, to back him up in any fight.

Still, he gave it a shot, trying to use some of Nori’s techniques to break his hold or knock him down, but his heart wasn’t in it.  It had been a long day, and he was tired, and – what was that?

In their fighting, Nori had turned Ori to face the fireplace.  Under his brother’s arm, the boy had a good view of the wall, upon which hung some old maps and paintings, and two portraits.  There was one on either side of the fireplace, but it was the one on the left which caught Ori’s eye; it was a of a dark-haired, young hobbit, with a small shy smile. 

“Wait, wait, stop!”  Nori kept on for a moment, but once he heard the real urgency in Ori’s voice, he immediately let go.  Ori was reeling for a short time.  After he caught his bearings, he stumbled to his bag in the chair, scrambling through it.

“What’s wrong, Or?”

The boy didn’t answer, too intent on his thoughts.  There!   At the bottom of the bag was the necklace he’d found in the Old Forest.  Ori lifted it up, looking over it again.  And there, in the portrait, he saw an exact likeness – the very same necklace that he held in his hands.

“Where’d you snitch that?”

Ori rolled his eyes.  “I didn’t snitch it, I found it.”

“Yeah, I think I’ve tried that one once or twice.”  Ori ignored his brother, looking again from the necklace to the portrait.  He considered seriously the implications if this was the same necklace, and the likelihood that it was a coincidence.  Could it be?  And if it wasn’t, what did that mean?

“Ori,” Nori, now sounding rather concerned, stepped in front of his brother.  “What’s wrong?”

He gripped the necklace tight.  “I have to go back to the Old Forest.”  Ori met his brother’s gaze.  “I think there’s something there that’s very important to Bilbo.”

“All right,” Nori nodded.  “We’ll talk to Thorin, I’m sure he’ll be up for anything that’s good for the hobbit.”

“No!”  Ori grabbed his sleeve.  “We can’t!  I – I have to go.”  Their eyes met again, and Nori understood.  Thorin was separating the fellowship, and only groups of two or three were going out looking for Bilbo.  While Thorin might allow them to go to the Old Forest by themselves, Dori would never stand for his youngest brother entering such a dangerous place without at least the whole company behind him. 

He would make Ori stay behind.

Ori loved Dori, but sometimes his eldest brother could be stifling.  If this was what he thought it was… then he had to search out that little grove in the Old Forest.  And he was the only one who knew where it was.

Nori gave a slight nod.  “Give me tonight,” He said, and Ori nodded.  Then, in a flash, his brother was moving quickly through the house, and was gone.

//

The dwarves, then, were quite prepared to go looking for their hobbit.

Only, they were looking in all the wrong places.

//

_The Evening Before_

Bilbo tossed and turned in his bed, a resolute frown upon his face.

He’d thought it over quite a lot, and then he’d thought it over some more.  But no matter how he turned it, he could not see a good end to this.  That Ranger – Strider was it? – had told him what was coming, and there was no way the Shire would be prepared, not even if they had months to do so.  They probably didn’t even have weeks.

Hobbits were peaceable folks, but more than that, they were wary of strangers, and not eager to rush off to battle.  Few hobbits could be consider warriors, and those who did fight were more like peacekeepers, not soldiers.  Even if all the bounders and shirriffs in the Shire could be rounded up, that would only amount to a force of a few hundred.

The Goblins were at least ten thousand strong.

There was simply no way around it.  No matter who Bilbo spoke to, no matter how many people he warned, the hobbits simply could not muster up an army in time.  There would be arguments, disbelief, politics to deal with.  And while they were all bickering about whether there were really goblins or not, the enemy would be upon them. 

Bilbo had seen quite enough people dead because of Goblins.

No, speaking to the Thain or the Mayor would not help; and while Bilbo would certainly send a letter off to Scary to warn them first thing tomorrow, he did not think going there himself would help.  He was just one hobbit – they needed an army.

Where could they get one?

He wasn’t sure; but he thought perhaps the Ranger would know, so he leapt out of bed and went looking for him.  Bilbo had shown him to the largest spare room he had, pulled out all the blankets and pallets he owned, hoping he could make a somewhat comfortable space for the man.  But when he went to the room, the Ranger was not there.

Dumbfounded, Bilbo stared for a moment, before backing away.  “Strider?”  He called, wandering down the halls.  “Hello?”  He did not find him inside Bag End.  Stepping outside, he made to head off and see if he’d gone to the inn, when he caught sight of the man.

Some distance away, spread across one of the rolling green hills, lay Strider.  He slept on a meager pallet made of threadbare blankets, with the thinnest one pulled over him.  His bag made for a pillow, Strider slept beneath the stars, open to the wind and rain and all about him.  Bilbo hesitated at the sight of him.  Something about the scene stole his heart.  There was something about the way this man preferred to sleep upon a bed of grass rather than a bed which endeared him to Bilbo.

Bilbo was loathe to wake him.  For a moment, he considered what to do, whether to wait until morning, and in that hesitation Strider woke.  Bilbo turned to see him leap up, alert in an instant, and he jumped.

“Oh!”  Frightened, he gave a weak laugh.  “I’m so sorry, I – I did not mean to disturb you.”

The Ranger sat up in his bed, still coming to awareness.  He glanced over their surroundings, wide eyed, before setting his gaze upon Bilbo.  “You are alright?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” He began, before remembering his worries.  “Only, I am concerned.”  He explained his thoughts and reasonings to the Ranger.  Uncertain of whether he would be believed, he finished with a nervous tone.  But Strider nodded in agreement.

“You may be right,” He began, sitting up fully.  “In that case, I may have a new course of action.”

And so he told the hobbit his plan, and they left at first light – and they did not go to Michel Delving, Tuckborough, or Scary.

//

That night at Bag End, Dori dreamt.

He did not dream often, on the road.  It was a rare occasion that he slept long enough to dream at all.  But that night he did dream.  Perhaps it was the wine, which he’d enjoyed with Gloin and Oin and some of the others, sharing stories over the dinner table, laughing and cheering.  He’d gone to bed with a full stomach, and a pleasantly light buzzing in his head.  Darkness overtook him quick – but after some time, that dark veil pulled back like a curtain.  And then, like a play upon a stage, the setting rose up in his mind, the snowy hills, the stone structures rising from the earth, the mighty stairs to Thorin’s Hall looming over all.

Ered Luin.

He’d long given up looking for the second boy.  What were the chances, after all?  For a nameless, clan-less dwarven child, just a _child_ , abandoned and left to die – what where the chances that child was alive?  No, Dori could not hope that they still lived.  He’d been lucky enough to find Ori, and to hope for anything more was foolish.  It would hurt too much to be disappointed.

That was what this dream was, then; memories, and he was himself, walking through Ered Luin.  Ori had applied to study under the scholars there, to learn their trades, and he’d been given quite a heavy stipend.  He was a promising student.  Dori did everything he could to help him, worked hard and long, bought him the best notebooks and pens and histories, even as he went without.  That was fine.  He’d had plenty, in his life.  Ori deserved so much more than Dori could give.

He’d been walking along the road to the market, to meet with one of the scholars and begin arranging the details of Ori’s study, when he realized he was being robbed.  Oh, Dori had lived clutching his purse strings long enough to know when he was being pick-pocketed.  The young man brushed against his side, smooth as can be, and it looked for all the world like an accident.  Dori knew better.

He followed him, at a distance, down side streets, between the columns.  (In the dream, the grey stone and the snow drifting down began to blend into a haunting hue, and at the center was the man, always just out of reach.)  Eventually Dori came up upon him quick, taking him by surprise, using his famed strength to unarm him and take the purse back.

The man fell with a grunt, but leapt to his feet quick, turning to face his opponent with a knife in hand.  Dori stood straight, ready to defend himself – and all the air in his lungs left him as he looked upon the splitting image of his mother’s face.

_Oh Mahal_ , he thought, in the past, and in the dream.  _Mother, what have you done?  What have we done?_

And he woke with tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Ah, foolish, foolish!”  Wiping furiously at his face, Dori stood, climbing out of bed.  What a mess.  Drudging up old memories, for what?  As if he needed to open old wounds again.  Yet, though he told himself to calm down and to let it go, trying to get his heart to stop pounding, he couldn’t help the desperate need he had to find his brothers, now.  To make sure they were alive, okay, here and now.  So he stood and stumbled to the door, still in a half-sleepy daze.

His brothers room was next to his, so he didn’t have far to go.  He knocked on the door, then realized, they were likely both still asleep.  Ack!  What a selfish idiot!  Going about waking up other dwarves because he can’t be a rational sort… Dori had begun to walk away from the door, but he hesitated.  His brothers slept rather heavily.  Perhaps he could simply peek, just to be sure.  Just to calm his nerves…

Dori went back to the door, and opened it gently.  With soft steps he entered his brothers’ room – to find no brothers at all, just a note on a bed.

Stunned, Dori fell against the door, shocked by the absence of them.  Yes, he’d been afraid, yes he’d panicked, but he didn’t actually think they were gone!   And the fact that they were made his terror spiral out of control.  He barreled for the note, taking it up with trembling fingers.

“Need to go back to Old Forest, have to be quick,” Dori began reading.  “We’ll be safe, promise, love you – Ori and Nori,” Dori was trembling head to foot by then, but fear was not all he was feeling anymore.

“You foolish, foolish boys!”  He grumbled, gripping the paper so hard it crumpled.  “Idiots!  You’ll get yourselves killed!”  Voice rising, he tossed the note to the floor, turned, and stormed out of the room.  “You’d better not be dead when I find you, because I’m going to _throttle you both myself!_ ”


	4. Northward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Aragorn begin their journey north, as other strangers enter the Shire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some discussion of gender that touches upon some heterosexism and transphobia.

 The next morning found Bilbo quite awake in the early hours.  After his first adventure and how he’d run off unprepared into the blue, Bilbo wanted some time to pack his things before they left.  So at the first crack of light above the horizon, the hobbit was awake and seeing to his things.

He had a large bag sitting open upon his bed, and was pacing his room, throwing odds and ends in.  Certainly he’d need warm clothes, to be sure… and perhaps this… perhaps that… After a while he could see he was packing altogether too much, and managed to force himself to cut back a bit.  Yet, he couldn’t help his excitement.

He was going to see Ered Luin!

Just the thought was enough to take his breath away.  He’d heard plenty of it, on the journey to the Lonely Mountain.  Most, if not all, of the company had hailed from the place, or at least been there before.  It had even been Thorin’s home, where Fili and Kili were born…

Enough of that!  Frowning, Bilbo wadded up the shirt in his hand and forced it into his bag.  He couldn’t go moping every time something brought those three to mind, else he’d always be down!  This was a good thing, he told himself.  Seeing Ered Luin would help him to put their ghosts to rest, to move on.  He really tried to believe it.

The truth was, he felt haunted by them: by Thorin and all the company, living or dead.  In the morning sometimes, sitting at his kitchenette he could almost believe he heard them, their ruckus and laughter around the campfire.  Sometimes, sitting outside smoking, he could swear he heard a rumbling, deep laugh, rare and all the more cherished for it.  Seemed he could not go a day without remembering them, and feeling the pang of their loss.

Sometimes, he wondered if it would’ve been easier, had he stayed, if he’d remained with his friends in Erebor.  But he could not bear to think of losing those few he had left, of Dwalin and Balin’s friendly faces turned sour and bitter with anger… of the company blaming him for what happened.  Oh, he could not stand it!

Suddenly Bilbo realized he was shaking head to foot.  He took in a deep breath through the mouth to calm his nerves, then another, sitting down upon the bench at the end of his bed.  What a way to start a journey, in a nervous fit already.

No time to waste mulling on the past now.  He had the future to worry about.  At that, Bilbo glanced towards the window.  He could see where the Ranger had slept the night before, but he was gone, and had been for some time.  Perhaps he had gone into town?  Bilbo tried not to worry about it, even as he wondered what kind of man this Strider really was.

Why was he concerned with the Shire?  Simply because he was Gandalf’s friend?  And how had they become friends?  Gandalf had never mentioned him, but that meant little given how much the wizard was inclined not to mention.  He seemed an honorable sort, but one couldn’t be sure.  The spell of the night before, in which Bilbo had felt entranced by the man’s lordly figure, had waned.  Now, Bilbo wasn’t sure what to think of him.

 

Well, then, he would not think of him.  He would keep packing, so that he might actually be prepared this time.  Bilbo kept on organizing and picking and choosing clothes and knick knacks, when he came upon something which surprised him.

In the back of one of his drawers was an old notebook, bound in leather, with a leaf etched into the front.  Seeing it brought striking memories back; of his father, of wandering the fields around Tuckborough, of going with his family through the Old Forest to Bree… he almost whimpered as he opened it, the feelings were so staggering.  This was a piece of his past, in his hands, something he’d almost forgotten about…

Father had bought it for him in Bree.  A simple notebook, meant for adventuring, Father had told him, “for what adventurer does not share his tales?”  So Bilbo had taken to writing down all that happened to him, from the littlest trips he took.  Seeing frogs in Frogmorton, or playing with his cousins near the Three Farthing Stone, all these were accounted for in the journal.  They were hardly legendary tales, just the exuberance of a child who saw magic in every corner and elves around every tree. 

Cracking it open let a puff of dust into the air, and Bilbo coughed.  As he flipped page to page, he saw things which jogged his memory… little sketches, collections of leaves and twigs, short stories of his youth.  He’d thought himself a real adventurer then.  To think, he’d finally gone on quite the journey, and he’d left this notebook behind!

Maybe he should bring it with him… no, Bilbo thought suddenly.  No, now was not the time to be day dreaming of adventures again.  This was a dire quest to save the Shire, done out of necessity, not some happy jaunt.  He couldn’t start giving into that adventure mess.  Look where it got him the first time!  Yes, Bilbo thought with a nod, closing the journal, he’d had enough of adventures.

Only… it seemed a waste.  More than half the book was empty, left waiting to be filled.  Bilbo eyed the book with trepidation.  Well, he was mostly packed, and had nothing else to do but wait for Strider to return.  Why not spend a little time writing?  So he sat upon his bed with pen and quill, and opened his old journal. 

Perhaps a half-hour later, the bell rang.

//

 Aragorn took to wandering the Shire as they waited for Bilbo.

Once the two of them got on the road, there would be little rest to be had.  So let the hobbit have his sleep, while he could.  It was still early yet, Aragorn thought, glancing towards the grey sky.  It would give Aragorn time to prepare.

Through the Shire, the roads would be relatively safe, so they could take them.  Aragorn purchased a pony for that purpose, to hold supplies and the hobbit, should he tire.  Then, they went about resupplying their gear and tools, and purchasing a few things with Bilbo in mind.  A few hours passed in this way, and the sun rose ever higher over the grassy hills.

Most of Hobbiton seemed to see them as a kind of strange pest.  It wasn’t so much that they distrusted men, but that Aragorn’s dress and manner seemed off to them.  Yes, the ranger was covered in filth and grime and dressed in poor traveling clothes; such things came with being a ranger.  But hobbits had rarely come into contact with such folks, and to them they appeared more like a thief or vagabond.

That suited Aragorn just find.  It did not matter to them what the common folk thought of them.  They had long ago accepted that, wherever they went, they would be a stranger, for one reason or another.

Still, for distrusting them, the hobbits hardly minded their tongues about them.  As Aragorn passed through the market, they heard all sorts of chatter.

One such conversation caught Aragorn’s ear and put a flutter of fear into their heart.

“Elves!”  One hobbit began with astonishment.  “Elves, coming towards the Shire!”

“Whatever for?”

“Where from?”

“Outside of Bree,” The first hobbit, a merchant, answered.  “Met them on my way back, I did.  Said they’re looking for their brother, and they think he’s here.”

“But we’d know if there was an elf hereabouts, wouldn’t we?”

Aragorn did not have to listen to anymore.  With wide eyes, they rushed back with their things to Bilbo’s, and rang the bell.  When the hobbit appeared at the door, they spoke.  “Quickly, we must leave!”  Aragorn began. 

“Oh!”  Bilbo, still in his robe, turned back into the hall, leaving the door open for Aragorn.  “Right away?  I’ve not yet dressed!”

“Do so then,” Aragorn told him.  “And be hasty – we are being followed.”

Shock came over the hobbit’s face.  “What, trouble already?  Are goblins after us?”

Thinking of their pursuers, a frown came over the ranger’s face that was half-annoyed, half-fond.  “No,” They said, “Much worse.”

//

Elladan slid to a halt upon the top of the ridge, his eyes dancing over the horizon.  Shortly after, his brother came to join him, slowing to a stop a few feet away.

“Have we lost them?”  He asked, turning to look back.  “It seems so, but there were so many.”

“Lost, for now,” Elladan told him, narrowing his eyes.  “We were not their true target.”  Scanning the distance, he frowned.

“Lucky for them,” Elrohir chuckled.  “They would not have enjoyed the outcome of our battle.”

That was certainly true.  For however outnumbered they might’ve been, the twin sons of Lord Elrond of Imladris would not have fallen without a fierce fight.  Many of the enemy would have been cut down in such a fray.   Elladan burned to do so, to turn back and cut them to shreds… but there were matters which meant more than vengeance, just now.

“The road to Bree is cut off.”  The archer began, beginning to step ever gracefully down the hill back towards the road.  “The goblins are closing in their ranks, choking off travel.  They mean to trap the Shire before they strike.”

“Shire folk are peaceful.  Gardeners, farmers, merchants,” His brother, following behind, said.  “They have no defense against this.”

“Perhaps that is why _honeg_ * has gone there,” Elladan wondered aloud. “To attempt to help them, if te** can.”

“What can be done?”  His brother snorted derisively.  “Ten thousand orcs are bearing down upon them.”  The outlook was grim, indeed; but both brothers knew without saying that they would be there still, in the Shire, when the orcs came.  They would stand against those fell beasts wherever they assailed the people of Middle Earth.  Even if their little brother had not been involved…

Yes, it was decided.  Whatever fate befell them, the brothers would go to the aide of the hobbits.  Elladan, sensing that in Elrohir’s heart was the same steady, determined drive to protect, smiled, and his brother matched the expression. 

Then, he saw his brother’s look darken, looking past his shoulder.  Elladan spun quickly, thinking perhaps danger was come, but it had not.  No, Elrohir’s gaze was set upon the road, and two riders on pony-back, riding out of the Shire…

… and right in the direction of the horde of orcs that Elladan and Elrohir had just escaped.

“ _Jukkete***!”_

//

The road Bilbo chose for their journey was not a road at all. 

No, the road would have required them to double back, heading south, then east to Waymeet, and then head north to Ered Luin.  That would add quite a lot of time and distance to their journey, indeed; so Bilbo chose another path, through the green hills of the Shire.  They would follow the Water, the river which led through Hobbiton, up north, until it met the Rushock Bog. 

He explained all this to the ranger, and Aragorn was in agreement.   In fact, he seemed almost pleased to be walking through the wilderness, rather than the main road.  It suited him, Bilbo thought.  The sun shimmering upon dew-laden leaves, coming down in broken lines through the trees, shedding dim light on his cloaked form – there was something about the scene that seemed to highlight the truth of this man, of what he really was.  He seemed more at home, with his boots becoming caked with fresh mud along the riverbank, holding the pony’s reigns and leading the beast along with gentle touches and quiet encouragement.

He was a strange sort of vagabond, if he really was one.  What kind of brigade took such clear delight in the fresh morning air, or so sweetly pet at his pony’s ears?  When they sat for a quick lunch, Bilbo saw many of Aragorn’s apple slices disappear into the pony’s mouth.  It reminded him of sharing his own apple with his pony on the journey to Erebor, and the kindness of it warmed his heart toward Aragorn.

During that lunch, Bilbo found within himself the courage to finally ask some of the questions which had been bothering him since he met the stranger.

“Um, excuse me,” He started quietly, drawing Aragorn’s attention away from the pony, Bliss.  “I was just – wondering, if you don’t mind my asking, are you… are you a wizard?”

The man’s eyes widened, and for a moment he appeared astonished before his lips cracked into a smile.  “No, Master Baggins,” Aragorn chuckled, a raspy, heavy sound that was a delight to listen to.  “I am no wizard.  My people come from the north, though I was not raised among them.  I am a Ranger.”

Now, it was Bilbo’s turn to be shocked.  “One of the Dunedain?”  Aragorn seemed somewhat surprised, and perhaps pleased, by the hobbit’s knowledge.  He nodded in reply.  It is good he did not attempt to speak, for Bilbo may not have given the chance.  “That is – forgive me, I just –“ A burst of laughter escaped him.  “I’ve only read tales of Arnor and the line of Isildur, it is – an honor, truly!”  And somewhat overwhelming, the hobbit thought, realizing this man was kin to some of the heroes of old, to true legends!

But Aragorn’s face darkened at the mention of such things, and he glanced away.  “Forgive me,” Bilbo said quickly, heart sinking.  “I – I did not mean to offend.”

“No, I am –“ The man sighed, holding up a hand.  “You have not.  I am not over fond of my ancestry.”

“Not – overfond?”  Of Elendil and Isildur, of the descendants of Numenor?  “I don’t understand.”

His dark looked darkened, eyes half lidded, his hair falling forward as a curtain against his face.  “Isildur, in his greed and folly, chose rashly, and allowed a great evil to continue to survive.”

Isildur’s Bane… yes, Bilbo had read of such things, he remembered.  His face fell.  “Certainly he made a mistake, but…” Suddenly the hobbit thought of a stern, hard-headed, kind-hearted dwarf, who tried so hard to do right by his people, and fell short.  “Surely a man might be judged by more than a single misdeed?”  Bilbo felt his throat was dry.  “Isildur did many things in his life, good, and evil.  Might he not be reduced to – to one mis –“ Feeling caught upon the words, Bilbo covered his mouth. 

Aragorn grew concerned.  “Master Baggins, are you -?”  He did not finish before Bilbo leapt to his feet and paced a few feet away, choking back tears.

 _Oh, Thorin… Thorin, you_ fool _._

“It’s nothing,” He said after a minute, voice dry and heavy.  Once he felt in control of himself he turned round, strode back to his bag and hefted it onto his shoulders.  “We should keep moving, we’ve still twelve miles to the bog, and the day is short.”

Aragorn said nothing, merely nodded.  But his sharp eyes trailed Bilbo as they returned to the road, and remained fixed upon his back for some time.

//

“Would you tell me of your people?”

The hobbit looked up to them in surprise, eyes widening.  “What, you mean – hobbits?”  He chuckled some.  “There’s not much to tell.”

“You may tell what you like, for I know nothing at all.”  Aragorn replied.  “I have never ventured to the Shire, and have heard little of halflings.”

“Well, for a start, you can drop that.”  Bilbo snorted, shaking his head.  “I’d like to see you tell Lobelia she’s half of anything, - or me, for that matter!”  There was some annoyance in his tone, but still, the hobbit smiled.

“I apologize, then,” Aragorn gave a quick bow, a smile on their face.  “I did not intend offence.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” Bilbo shrugged.  “I’m sure we’ll be stepping on each other’s toes quite a bit this trip.”

Yes, they might at that.

“So, let’s see… hobbits.”  The hobbit seemed to be in thought, eyes drifting to the clouds above them.  The sun was overhead, and leaning east, as the hours of midday waned.  They’d left the trees behind them, and the waters were darkening, growing murky and thick.  Soon they’d be upon Rushock Bog, at the feet of the Blue Mountains. 

“Well, we’re rather simple folk.”  He began.  “We appreciate a good meal and a well-made homebrew, and when all the cooking and eating’s done we like to kick back with a pipe on the front porch.”  The fondness in Bilbo’s voice spoke of how often he’d done such things.  “Hobbits are a friendly sort, for the most part.  Fond of guests but wary of strangers, as I’m sure you’ve seen.”

“Oh, yes,” Aragorn offered quickly.  “I would say that’s true.”

“I apologize for that.”  Bilbo glanced his way, seeming truly regretful, though it had nothing to do with him.  “The Shire is a rather insular place.  Hobbits know little and could care less about anything beyond the borders of Buckland, save those who sometimes travel west to Bree, for trade, or those who’d rather go north to the Needlehole.  You see, hobbits, we are a peaceful sort.  We like to garden, to dance, to make music and watch fireworks.  We’ve no stock in war or weaponry.  But men, dwarves, even elves, they’re always running about fighting, making a mess of things.”  At that, the hobbit frowned darkly.  “So while I do wish my fellow hobbits might be a bit more open-minded, I can understand their reluctance.”

“As can I.”  Aragorn replied.  “The Shire is a beautiful place.  I will do what I can to see it stays that way.”

Bilbo met his gaze again.  “Well, there’s the rub.”  He sighed.  “We may dislike it, but now it’s upon us, and we’ve no way to handle it.  Perhaps we’d have been better off shining swords than making merry.”

“I would dearly wish that no hobbit in the Shire, nor anyone in the whole of Middle Earth, would need or have to wield a sword, who did not want to.”  Aragorn let out his own sigh, turning his sight to the ever-darkening horizon.  “But that is not the world we live in.”

“No,” The hobbit said quietly.  “It’s not.”

//

A few hours into the evening, the two came upon their destination: the Needlehole.  It was a half-way spot, here-and-there, a town of dwarves and hobbits.  In the northern-most part of the Westfarthing, the Needlehole stood as a waypoint between the lands of the dwarves of Ered Luin, and the hobbits of the Shire.

It was a small place, consisting mostly of an inn, a market peddling to travelers, and a few rows of houses.  Hobbits and dwarves both called the place home, but they weren’t always very happy about it.  Dwarves gave little care to growing things, or to gardening, and hobbits did not have the love of metal and smithy-ing that dwarves did.  But they both had an appreciation for drink and pipeweed, so troubles were usually smoothed over well enough, with a beer and a smoke.

Bilbo was happy to see the Needlehole; for at least it meant they were out of that dreadful bog, which reeked and was full of gnats.  He was soaking wet and dreadfully cold, and quite ready to settle down for the night. 

As Aragorn went to the inn to get them a set of rooms, Bilbo stood outside with the pony, awaiting his return.  The night air was chill enough, but with his wet clothes, Bilbo was shivering head to toe.  It was dreadful!

Frustrated and tired, the hobbit crossed his arms, muttering to himself.  “What were you thinking, Bilbo Baggins?”  He said aloud.  “One adventure, that was enough, but no, you had to go run off again -!”

“Bilbo?”

Surprised, the hobbit spun, looking up, as he was expecting Aragorn.  Only, there was no one up there.  And so he looked down – and found himself looking upon a very small dwarf.

“Are you?”  The young dwarf asked.  “Are you Bilbo Baggins?”

Taken aback, the hobbit stumbled with his words.  “Well, yes – I suppose I am.”

The little dwarf’s eyes suddenly went very wide, and Bilbo really wasn’t sure what to think, when suddenly the child leapt upon him!  “Ack!  What are – okay, this is – Do we know each other?”  Nothing gained the dwarf’s attention, he merely squeezed Bilbo very tight, until it felt his limbs might pop off.

“Gimli Gloin-son, you put that hobbit down this instant!”

The dwarf let out a childish whine, but Bilbo did feel his feet meet the ground again, and the dwarf’s arms dropped.  As he attempted to catch his breath, the words stuck in Bilbo’s head, and he played with them trying to pick out something that was truly begging for his attention, only his oxygen-deprived head wasn’t quite getting it.

Then it clicked.  “Gloin!”  Eyes opening wide, Bilbo looked again to the child, and then to the dwarven woman who came to stand at his side.  “You’re – you are Gloin’s family?”

“See, momma, it’s Bilbo, he said so!”  The young dwarf was ignoring the hobbit, turning his excited gaze upon his mother.  “And he’s just like papa said in the letters!”

Bilbo took a moment to look at the boy, and yes, now he could see the resemblance.  Flaming red hair, a broad forehead and prominent nose, much like Gloin.  His mother’s hair was much darker, her beard thicker, and she was a head taller than Bilbo.

At that moment, Aragorn reappeared at Bilbo’s side, a curious look on his face.  “Friends of yours?”

Bilbo gave him a smile, and a shrug. 

//

The ranger left them then, wishing to allow Bilbo time to himself with his friends, and though the hobbit had insisted he could stay, he very quickly disappeared.  So it was the hobbit came to have dinner with Rimli, wife of Gloin, and Gimli, their young son.

They were traveling south, with all they owned, leaving their home in Ered Luin to travel to Erebor, to stay.  Rimli planned to linger some in the Shire, though, as she expected to meet her husband there.

“Gloin is in the Shire?”  Bilbo asked in shock.

“Aye, as is the rest of the Company, if they were not held up,” Rimli told him. 

“Whatever for?”

“For you, of course!”  The woman laughed.  “Why else would those dwarves be lumbering about Hobbiton?  They’re looking for you.”

The very thought was enough to have the hobbit reeling, clasping at his chest as his heart picked up speed.  The Company!  In the Shire, to find him!  But wait… ?

“There’s no trouble, is there?” He asked quickly, a great fear for those he loved swelling inside him.  “They aren’t in need of help?”

“Oh, no, Master Baggins, they’ve not come looking for help.”  Rimli smiled at that, and took another long gulp of her ale.  “Honestly, I don’t think I’m the right one to tell you exactly why they’ve come – only that they’ve missed you, and have very much wanted to see you.”

Very much… choking back tears for the second time that day, Bilbo took to his drink to want of something to do.  Love and affection came bursting to life inside him for those dear dwarves, in all their strange, rude, roughness. 

“Papa told us all about you.”  Gimli chimed in.  “How you saved King Thorin from the Defiler, and killed the spiders in Mirkwood, and faced Smaug, and –“

“Yes, we’ve heard plenty of your adventures,” Rimli cut in, with an indulgent glance at her over-eager son.  She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him into her side, tight.  “He’s quite taken with Bilbo the Buglar.”

The boy flushed scarlet.  “Mum!” 

Bilbo’s face was about the same color.  “Well, really, it was hardly anything, I just was very lucky.  The others were constantly saving my life, too, you know.  Your father was a great help, too.”

They talked quite a bit of the quest, and young Gimli was full to bursting with questions of what had happened, and how, and what Bilbo had done – and every so often, how his father had played a part, or his Uncle Oin, or how King Thorin or his royal nephews had done.  It was… hard, speaking of it all, especially speaking of the dead specifically, but Bilbo managed.  He kept to the good stuff, the light hearted parts, where the adventure had been so hopeful and at times, even fun.  Gimli ate it up, and Rimli too, though perhaps not as eagerly.

Bilbo found himself looking quite often to the woman.  Eventually, said dwarf noticed, and cocked an eyebrow.  “Is something the matter?”

Bilbo flushed again.  “Oh, I’m sorry, it’s just – I’ve never seen a dwarven woman before.”

“Certainly, you have.”  Rimli replied with a chuckle.  “You traveled with the Company, didn’t you?”

That took a moment to sink in.

“Wait, what?”  Stunned, Bilbo shook his head.  “But… they all called themselves men!”

“I shall let you in on something of a secret of ours.”  Rimli leaned in closer.  “A dwarf secret, and since you are Bilbo Baggins and a great friend to the dwarves, I shall let you in on it.  Most of the peoples of Middle Earth are… strange about gender.  I don’t know how hobbits are, but men, for one, have very strict ideas about who can be what gender and what genders can do what.”

Bilbo thought of his experiences with men, and it seemed that was true enough.

“Now, we dwarves have much broader ideas, and we are not so limiting.  But men, they expect certain things, and so we let them have their assumptions.  They think men should do the fighting and crafting and – well, most else.  So we let them think all our fighters and craters are men.”

“And – and are they?”  The hobbit asked, somewhat flummoxed.

The woman snorted.  “What do you think?”  Taking another long sip, she let out a nice belch.  “Good, that is.”  The tankard was empty when she set it down.  “No, dwarves have many genders, and none of them are limited to any profession or way of life.”

“M – many?”  Bilbo, finding himself in need of a little liquid courage, took up his own drink.  “As in, more than one?”

“And what of hobbits?”  Rimli began.  “How do they treat such things?”

To be honest, Bilbo wasn’t exactly sure, and he said so.  These sorts of personal things, well, that was private.  Each family had their own feelings about such things.  Now, his mother’s people, the Tooks, they were quite open about it.  The Tooks dressed as they pleased, acted as they pleased, and presented themselves how they pleased.  Bilbo could remember a time that one of the Bracegirdles had insulted a Took woman, calling them all sorts of dreadful things for not being a “real woman”, and had been dumped in the Brandywine for his trouble.  (They saved him from drowning. … Eventually.) 

But the Baggins?  Oh, the Bagginses were quite particular.  Men were men, and women were women, and there was none of this both or neither nonsense, and you were stuck with what they gave you when you were born, as was proper.  Bagginses saw things very strictly, each person with their own place, and men and women with their own spheres in the world.  And they did not like hobbits that did not see things their way.

“How dreadful,” Rimli began.  “I don’t mean to offend, but…”

“No, offend away!”  Bilbo laughed.  “My Baggins relatives rather don’t like me, and I can say the feeling is mutual.  Once, perhaps, I would’ve liked to be respected and ‘proper’, but now?”  He gave a light shrug.  “I think, now, there are more important things.”

“Like what?”  Gimli asked.

Bilbo thought for a moment.  “Like dumping rude, ignorant folk in rivers.”  They all had a right laugh at that.

//

That night, Aragorn sat under the stars, by the side of the road, smoking his pipe.  Into the late hours of night, they brooded upon dismal thoughts.  Of Bilbo’s plan, and if it might fail… of the Shire, and it’s possible ruin… of dwarves, and a hobbit brought to tears by some unspoken misery…

But like much else of late, their thoughts eventually drifted to the same trouble, the same twisted, aching pain in their heart, that they could not lessen.  Tonight, it came to them as they dwelt upon those two elves on the road, surely looking for them, the brothers they loved and so feared to face.

They’d run off with such anger, swearing never to return.  What must Elladan and Elrohir think of them?

Yes, they still spoke to father, at times; through the rare letter, sent every few months, merely confirming that they still breathe.  Their bond with Elrond of old has fractured, and they have only their own foolish self to blame.  But… they thought of the night of that dreadful parting, of the knowledge bestowed… and they ached, oh they ached and tears burnt their eyes.  This was a pain that would not soon end.

No, they could not go back home, not now, perhaps not ever.  Rivendell was lost to them.  But the North, the Rangers, they were no family either.  They did not much like Aragorn, this stranger to them, more elf than man, who claimed to be their future king.

No, they did not belong anywhere.

 _Sleep_ , Aragorn thought, ignoring the tears spilling over onto their cheeks.  _Sleep, and cease these thoughts.  They will solve nothing._

So the ranger slept under the cold stars, upon a thin bed of blankets, with only sorrow for company.

//

Thorin Oakenshield lay resting in Bilbo’s bed.  It smelt of him; of early morning dew upon fresh grass, of pipeweed soaked into well-kept cotton linens.  Resting in his very bed sent home the fact that he was so very close, just nearby somewhere, and it burned at Thorin that he could not see him.

“Ah!” Oin, at Thorin’s bedside, wagged a finger at him.  “I know that look.”  He was preparing another treatment for Thorins wounds, about to unwrap his soiled bandages.  “Don’t even think about leaving this bed.”

Sighing, Thorin nodded.  “I will not.”  Though he grew impatient with the need to see his Burglar, he knew this was not truly an urgent matter.  There was no pressing danger; his wounds had to take precedence.  The other dwarves had gone off looking; they would find him.

“Good,” Oin nodded, satisfied.  They were a stern medic, because they had a kind heart; ever concerned for all those around them, and their best interests.  Some, in Erebor, before the dragon, had taken to the field of medicine for the prestige, for the honor bestowed to the field, and cared little for the actual people under their care.  Many simply did not care for the soldiers they were to serve, seeing them as lesser, not as important, as their craft.  A metal worker might be permitted to like the making of things better than what is made; but a medic holds lives in their hands. 

Travesties had been allowed to happen in Erebor, at the hands of those who should have been trustworthy.  And it was Oin who had unearthed these things, and forced them into the light.  Oin, who had risked the wraith of their colleagues and their future in their field, to save the lives of Erebor’s dwarves.

Thorin would always trust them because of that.

“Now, hold still,” Oin said, pulling Thorin out of memory into the real world.  In a few minutes, they had reapplied the herbs and redressed the wounds.  “There.  Give it a few more days, and I might just let you out of my sight.”

Thorin chuckled at that.  “I doubt it.”  Oin smiled, wished him a good night, and parted.

Thorin did not think he could sleep, not know that he was lucid, and aware of his surroundings.  Signs of Bilbo were all around him; the scent, the decorations, the warmth of the place… how could he rest, when he was so aware of the one he desired most being near, but not here?

Yes, he desired Bilbo, and greatly; perhaps he always had, since the early days of the venture.  He could not be sure.  Only that, one day, in Erebor, he had realized that he would not see Bilbo for the rest of his days and a horrific cold had sunk into his chest and stole his breath away.  No, he had to see Bilbo, as often as possible, to see him with every rising sun, if he could.

Thorin did not know if that was love, but it was how he felt.

The dwarf’s wandering eyes eventually drifted to the bedside table, where Oin had gathered many of his tools and ointments.  But alongside it was a book of some sort.  One of Bilbo’s.  Well, if he wasn’t able to sleep, at least he could do something, Thorin thought.  A book would be a nice distraction.

Only… it was no book.

It was a diary.  A journal – of Bilbo’s! Written in his own script! Somewhat awed by the discovery, Thorin glanced through it, flipping pages, taking comfort in the familiarity, the sense of Bilbo that filled it.  His handiwork was clear in its every page.  He flipped through it quickly until he came to the end, where most of the pages were blank.  His gaze fell upon the last page.

“… I don’t know how I shall live without them…”

Quickly it became apparent that this was very recent… and written of the Company?  Frowning, Thorin turned back until he believed he was at the beginning of this particular entry.  Then, he began to read.  Now, normally he would not be so invasive, and certainly would not invade another’s privacy, but perhaps this recent entry would mention where Bilbo had gone? 

And so he read it, and the further in he went, the more his chest tightened, his throat growing dry, the whole world grinding to a halt around him.

_Bilbo thought he was dead._

In fact, he thought they were all dead – the three of them, Thorin and his nephews.  And he blamed himself for it, held himself accountable for the losses, for betraying the dwarves, for being such a “stubborn fool”.  The more Thorin read, the more horrified he became, until he was staring slack-jawed at the journal.

_“… if the Shire is to be saved, then we must find an army.  The only one I can think of is north, in Ered Luin.  For all the mistakes I made, I did have a hand in reclaiming Erebor.  If the dwarves remember that, perhaps they will ride to the Shire’s aid?  It’s our only hope.  No one else can help else.  No one else will help us.”_

_“So I will go with Strider to Ered Luin.  I hope I can stomach it.  Even just the thought of seeing the place Thorin called home for so long makes me a little sick.”_

Trembling fingers ran over the page, which was crinkled and a bit wrinkly here and there.  Thorin touched those spots – the ink was smudged where water had fallen upon the page.  Tears.  Bilbo had been crying when he wrote this.

Thorin Oakenshield stared at the book until he could not stand it, a burning drive rising inside him, fueled by anger and sorrow and the desperate need to protect those he loved.  And in that moment, gripping Bilbo’s journal so tightly it might snap, he knew what he had to do.

Thorin was going to Ered Luin, one way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Elvish for "little brother"
> 
> **An elvish genderqueer pronoun I invented, which I discussed some on my blog: http://thegamingmuse.tumblr.com/post/73730666070/so-the-valar-come-down-to-arda-and-chose-their .
> 
> ***Elvish for "fuck".


	5. Here, There, and Everywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarves divide and conquer to find Bilbo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments! I was very nervous about this fic because it's my first LOTR fic, but it's been quite a lot of fun. I love this world and all these characters so much, and messing with their cultures is great fun.
> 
> This chapter deals with a lot of various groups, but future chapters will be much less divided. I'll deal with specific groups of dwarves at a time, alongside the main story of Bilbo, Aragorn, and Thorin. So, in Chapter Six, who would y'all rather see more of?
> 
> 1) Nori, Ori, Dori, and Dwalin  
> 2) Fili and Kili  
> 3) Gloin and Oin  
> 4) Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, and Lobelia
> 
> I'm open to suggestions. Again, thanks for reading!

The night that the dwarves arrived in Hobbiton, and were permitted entry into Bag End by Lobelia, they made a plan to find Bilbo.  Certain members of their company would travel to the different places he might be, and would return with what news they could.  It was all settled very quickly, and they went to bed with that plan in mind.

It was quite ruined by morning.

What dwarves had not already been awake that morning woke to an enraged scream echoing through the smial.  Balin had been in the kitchen with Bombur, preparing breakfast; the poor cook jumped, half out of his skin with fright, while Balin merely grew concerned.  Other dwarves were bursting out of their rooms left and right, some afraid, some irritated by the racket, and inevitably the whole of the company was standing in Bilbo’s living room.

It was Dori who had started the ruckus, and he seemed furious, clutching his fists and stomping around.  He had a bag over his shoulder, and was moving through Bag End, grabbing supplies. 

“And where are you off to?”  Bofur, still in his sleep clothes and his silly hat, asked from the doorway. 

“To the Old Forest!”  He insisted quite loudly.  “To find my knuckle-headed brothers before anyone – or anything - else does!”

That went over like a splash of cold water; suddenly everyone was glancing around, looking for Nori and Ori, who were clearly not there.

“What happened?”  Thorin asked, stepping forward with Oin’s assistance.  “Why have they gone?”

“I shall ask them when I find them!”  Dori spat back quickly, and while some of the group winced to see Thorin spoken to so, no one would have corrected the dwarf.  Dori was as over-protective as they came, and not a one of them was going to get between him and the door.

Except Dwalin, apparently.

Dori fumed at the taller dwarf when he stepped in front of Bag End’s green front door.  “I am either walking out that door,” The smaller dwarf began, “Or I will throw _you_ out it!”  And it was no idle threat – for all of Dwalin’s strength and battle prowess, Dori was no slack.  He was, in fact, the strongest dwarf in Ered Luin, and perhaps in all the company, for physical ability.

“Oh, I won’t stop you.”  Dwalin drawled, eyes half lidded and darkened with anger.  “I’m going with you.”  But he glanced to his king, for Dwalin would not go against Thorin’s wishes, however he might worry for Ori and Nori.  Thorin gave a quick nod.

Their carefully laid plan did not last the night.  By morning, four of their number were already gone on another errand, running off to the Old Forest.  The rest of the dwarves were divided up again, and by noon, they were off, save Oin and Thorin, who remained at Bag End.

Evening rolled around, and only one dwarf had returned: Balin, whose journey had been shortest.  She traveled south to Tuckborough, to speak to the Thain, and see if Bilbo had been to see him. 

“Any news?”  Thorin was at the kitchen table when Balin returned.

“None,” Balin sighed, taking a seat across from Thorin. “Bilbo has not been to Tuckborough of late.”  Thorin frowned, looking down at this soup with displeasure.  That could either be because Bilbo had not been found, or because it was Oin’s medicinal recipe, which was not known for its flavor.

“Chin up, lad,” Oin said behind them, where they were doing dishes in the sink.  “Bilbo’s in the Shire somewhere.  These are hobbit lands, they’re safe enough.”

The three of them sat and chatted for a few hours; and at the time, Thorin thought it nice that Balin had been able to return so early.  Speaking to his old friend was a nice distraction from his worries.

Hours later, he ruefully regretted the fact that of all the dwarves, the one who returned first was the one who would most easily see right through him, and waylay any attempts to escape Bag End.

Balin had known Thorin for years; since his youth, in fact.  While Thorin and Dwalin had grown up together as friends and companions, almost the same in years, Balin had been a few decades older.  Always wiser and steadier, ready to help and to listen however she could.  But she also had a keen eye for trouble, and while that was helpful with keeping Fili and Kili out of mischief when they were young… well, it kept Thorin out of quite a bit of mischief, too.

Oin would have been easier to slip past, simply because the healer did not know Thorin so well.  He could trick Oin easier.  But Balin?  Balin knew all of Thorin’s tricks.  If Thorin wanted to slip away and follow Bilbo to Ered Luin, he was going to have to be very careful about it…

He could simply tell Balin what he’d found. But the other dwarf would insist upon following Bilbo herself, and make Thorin remain behind to heal.  While one part of Thorin’s heart told him that was sensible – no.  He had done Bilbo great wrong, and all this time Bilbo had suffered unjustly.  Thorin would not leave the hobbit to suffer any longer than he had to.  He had to make this right.

_Balin could tell Bilbo that you and the boys live_ , a traitorous voice in his mind whispered.  _Why must you be the one to tell him?  Bilbo would not think Balin was a liar…_

No, Thorin frowned, sitting up in his – in Bilbo’s – bed.  It had been months since he had seen the hobbit, and in all that time, Bilbo thought him dead, and blamed himself.  When it had been Thorin who had so gravely betrayed him, had – had dangled him in the air and almost _killed_ him –

He had to make this right.

So, sitting in his sick bed, Thorin devised a plan.

//

“Fili!”  The dwarf was jolted out of his thoughts by his brother’s voice.  He turned to see Kili standing with a pony on either side of him, a grin on his face.  “You coming or not?”

The elder snorted.  “Course I am.”  He tried in vain to shake off the clouds over his thoughts, and then smiled at his brother.  It didn’t seem to work; Kili frowned a little, concern clear in his eyes, and Fili’s smile faded.  He turned away.  “Come on,” He moved to get onto his pony, and next he knew Kili was at his side.

He didn’t offer his help, verbally; just stood there, ready if Fili wanted or needed him.  Fili appreciated that.  He wasn’t sure he’d of been able to ask.  With his brother’s aid, he climbed into the saddle, his left arm hanging uselessly at his side.

“We could ride together, you know,” Kili told him, still standing by the pony’s side.  “Just like when we were little.”

Fili chuckled at that.  He remembered _Kili_ being little, all big eyes and bony limbs, too small to have his own pony.  He’d always had to ride with _amad_ *, uncle, or Fili.  “I’ll be fine, Kee,” He insisted, pointedly ignoring the numbness in his left hand.  Kili hesitated for a moment longer before nodding and stepping onto his own steed.

Neither of them had come away from the Battle of Five Armies uninjured; but for all that Kili fretted over Fili as if he were gravely wounded, it had been the younger who was more severely harmed.  He’d walked back into camp with his brother, seemingly fine as can be – then collapsed, two hours later.  For a week he’d been asleep, and Fili had been out of his mind with fear, hovering at his brother and his uncle’s bedsides, nearly useless from worry.

Kili was mostly fine, now.  His memory was something of a problem.  He couldn’t always recall little things, conversations he’d had that day, or instructions he’d just been given.  Sometimes it seemed words went right out his ears soon as he heard them.  He still knew everyone, and recognized everyone, and given the kind of problems a blow to the head could give, Fili considered his brother lucky.  But it seemed to bother Kili, having to always ask about these things.  So Fili made sure to watch for him, to remind him of things, and in turn, Kili was always nearby to help with his arm.

It wasn’t the arm so much that was injured, but the hand – crushed underfoot by Azog, the bones shattered.  One day he might be able to use it, but he would never be able to work with it delicately, or a lift a sword with it again.  Luckily it was his less dominant hand, but it still caused quite a lot of trouble.

“Fili!”  Snapped from thought again, the dwarf looked up to see a pitiful look upon his brother’s face.  “What’s the matter?  Are you ready or not?”

“Yes, yes, let’s go,” With a sigh, Fili tried to pull himself together and put his mind to the task.  They were to set out to Bree, to find out what they could of this mysterious, possibly dangerous new friend of Bilbo’s.  There was little to go on, but for Bilbo’s sake, Fili hoped they would find something.

By late midday they were crossing the Brandywine and leaving the Shire.  It was much faster riding, with only two dwarves to worry about.  With luck they’d be in Bree on the morrow, and only have to camp on the road one night.

Traveling over the lazy roads of the Shire was hardly any work, so there was little to occupy Fili’s mind.  He found himself drifting again.  The exhaustion in his body was so clear to him then.  It seemed everything ached, and his heart ached, not for any particular reason but only because it always seemed to, a constant pressure against his chest.

A hand against his shoulder took him by surprise, and he jumped.  When Fili turned it was to see Kili riding alongside with a dreadful frown.

“Alright, what’s wrong?”  Kili’s eyes darted over his brother’s face and Fili was hard pressed keeping himself from looking away.  “Come on, we’ve finally got some time to ourselves, after all.  You can tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“You know what!”  Kili sputtered indignantly.  “You haven’t been the same since Erebor!  Always moping around like somebody broke your heart!”  Then the dwarf’s eyes went wide.  “You haven’t had your heart broken, have you?”

“No, no,” Fili shoved at him, chuckling.  “You’ve been listening to Bofur’s silly drunken love songs too much.”

“It’s hard not to, he’s so loud the whole camp can hear.”

“That’s the truth.” 

Their laughter slowed until a peaceful quiet fell over them, with only the pony’s strides breaking the quiet.  The grey clouds over Fili’s mind had parted some, the humming and buzzing in his ears fading away.  He almost felt like himself, riding along with his brother in the sunshine, away from the cold and dark corridors of Erebor.

“You would tell me?”  His brother began. “If something was wrong?”

Fili listened to him, and tried to find the strength to say what he needed to say.  “I would try.”  He looked his brother’s way, and saw the younger was smiling, but it was a somber smile.  “And you would certainly be the first to know, Kee.”

That brightened his grim look, if only a little.  “That’s good to know at least.”

For a moment, it seemed all was well.  Which is, of course, when the goblins attacked.

//

The second group to leave Bag End that morning was setting off for the mining town of Scary, in the north-eastern part of the Shire.  They would follow the Great East Road until they came to the pass north, and enter into Budgeford. 

“Send miners to speak to miners,” Bofur began, turning to nudge Bifur with his shoulder.  “Makes sense to me.”

_“And if we’re going, Bombur obviously has to come,”_ Bifur replied in Khuzdul, looking to his cousin.

“Right, right,” Bofur nodded, turning to his other side, where Bombur flanked him.  “Of course.  But my question is – why is _she_ following us?”

About ten feet behind them, there was a hobbit, who seemed rather put out.  She was struggling to keep up, given the differences in their heights and the fact that the dwarves weren’t really trying to lessen their pace.  She replied to Bofur in a tightly drawn, irritated voice.  “I must speak with my cousin, Master Dwarf,” Lobelia began, huffing and puffing.  “And if I know Bilbo – and I do – then of all those places, he will be in Scary.”

“Is that right?” Bofur glanced behind, cocking an eyebrow.  “How well do you know Bilbo?”

“Well enough!”  She spat, color rising to her face.  “We grew up together, after all.  I’ve known him since he was a wee tween and I was the same.”

“And what’s this urgent business with him?”

“It is private!”  Lobelia’s voice grew shriller the more irritated she became, and it seemed that even looking at the dwarves put her in a foul mood.  “Could you not slow down some?”

“Why, are we travelling together?”  Bofur asked slyly, tucking his hands behind his head. 

“Oh, you _nasty_ little – you would not even know where to go if not for me!”  She spat back.  “Nor would you have had a place to spend the night!  I believe you owe me at least the kindness of walking with me?”

Well, when she put it that way.  “Alright, fellas,” Bofur shrugged, and as he shortened his strides, so did Bombur and Bifur.

His brother, on his left side, leaned towards him.  “I don’t know why you have to do that.”

Bofur looked askance at him.  “Do what?”

“It seems every time you see a hobbit you have to poke it until you get a rise out of it!”  Bombur, a little flustered himself, huffed.  “You made Bilbo faint the first time you ever spoke to him!”

“It wasn’t the first time, it was the second.”  Bofur defended himself. 

“Oh?  And the first time?”

“The first time may have been a joke about balls.”

Bombur sent a stern, brotherly glare his way, and Bofur deflated a little.  It was rare he ever really got on his brother’s nerves, but sometimes he had a tendency to go a little too far.  And Bombur was right – hobbits were just so easy to mess with!  And this one, this Lobelia, well she was wound tighter than Bilbo ever was.  But clearly Bombur thought he’d gone too far, and if Bombur thought he needed to reign it in, well, he was usually right about such things.  As children, it had always been Bombur covering his backside, after all, and no one but Bifur had ever looked out for him so well.

“So,” Bofur started up again when Lobelia came to walk beside them.  “How is it you’re so sure Bilbo’s in Scary?”

“If there’s trouble in the Shire, Bilbo Baggins will not go off to the Thain or the Mayor to talk about it.”  Lobelia huffed.  “He’ll run right to the trouble and give it a good thwack.”

All three dwarves laughed at that.  “She’s right, you know,” Bombur grinned ear to ear.

“Then we’ll be the ones with good news to bring back!”  Bofur beamed as well, and even Lobelia seemed to have regained a little of her cheer.  

_“Hopefully, there’s not any real trouble in the Shire.”_ Bifur alone of them didn’t seem cheered by the thought of finding Bilbo.  “ _After all we’ve been through together, only to lose Bilbo in his own home?”_

“We’re not going to lose him!”  Bofur smacked Bifur’s arm, ignoring the sudden rush of heat that flooded his whole body head to toe as his heartbeat rose, as if they were in danger, but there was none.  “Don’t even joke about that!”

Bifur’s serious eyes met his. _“I’m not the one who jokes about everything.”_   He said pointedly.

A tight frown came over bofur’s lips, and he failed to respond to his cousin’s words.  Only, he picked his pace up again, suddenly very eager to find Scary and know that Bilbo was safe.  His family followed his lead, of course.

“Oi!”  The little hobbit chirped.  She was already falling behind again.  “Would you make up your mind!”  And she grumbled so all the way to Budgeford.

//

But of course, Bilbo was in none of those places.

He was waking up in an inn in the Needlehole, after a long night of cheerful chatting with Rimli and Gimli.  It had been very pleasant, and enlightening as far as his knowledge of dwarves went; for while he had come to know his friends well, they’d never really sat down and discussed such things as dwarven culture or their way of life.  In fact, Bilbo was relatively certain Thorin would’ve scowled at such questions.

Just thinking the dwarf’s name had his heart skipping a beat, and Bilbo frowned into the tub of water he was using to clean his face.  Drat it all.  Here he was, almost a year later, still living as if he were haunted.  Frowning, Bilbo glared down at his own reflection, a hand on either side of the bowl.  “Thorin,” He managed to whisper, still tripping over the sounds.  “ _Tho-rin._   Thorin Oakenshield is d –“

He didn’t finish, his voice catching on the first hint of the truth.  It was there, right there in his mouth, but he just couldn’t let it go.  Fuming at his own ridiculous behavior, and at this situation, and at the pain that had been broiling inside him, locked up for so long, the hobbit glowered and clenched his fists and forced it out.

“Thorin Oakenshield is dead!”  He scowled at the roof of his room, to keep his tears in his eyes.  “Fili, Kili, they’re all dead, and you had better get used to it!”  By the end of it there were tears streaming down his face, and they kept on throughout his morning routine, until he was dressed and about out his door.

He did not see either Rimli or Gimli that morning, which was fine, as he was in no state for polite conversation.  There was a burning fire inside him stronger than any dragon flame, that hurt more than any wound he’d ever been dealt.  He longed very much for someplace to hide and cry, but he was a grown hobbit and there was work to do.  The Shire needed him.  It was time to find Strider and move on.

He went and spoke to the innkeeper, paying for his stay, before moving to leave.  Through the inn, he moved as one half-asleep, eyes to the ground, shadows on his face.  They were mere hints of the shadows in his heart, which had festered in the dark for so long.  He was a hobbit in mourning, with no bodies to bury, no shoulders to cry on, no life to move on to.  For what did he have in the Shire?  A great big, empty smial, and not a soul who cared for him?

He missed Bofur, with his bright smile and kind eyes; and Bombur, who laughed joyfully and loved deeply.  Dwalin, so gruff and grumpy without but quite dear within; and Balin, wise and wonderful.  Oh he missed them all, every one of them.  Truly, he only felt as if he missed the dead most, because he knew there was no chance he could ever see them again.

He was half crying again once he was outside, walking about in a daze.  The world was foggy for the tears in his eyes, and his whole face burned the way one does when sorrow overtakes the heart.  He stumbled out of the town, ignoring who might be looking.

No longer did he try to look through town for Strider; he could not be seen like this.  Instead, Bilbo stumbled down the road, only meaning to find the privacy to mourn, perhaps outside the city walls.  He could not go to Strider like this, blubbering and aching so profoundly, red-faced and teary-eyed.  Bilbo rushed quick as he could into the wilds around the Needlehole, hoping none would see…

He collapsed against a tree and let the sobs tear out of him, a dozen flashes of memories dancing behind his closed eyes.  All the dwarves as he remembered them, but the dead most of all, fond memories of Thorin, Fili, and Kili, laughing, smiling, happy – bleeding, falling, on their death beds –

“Bilbo?”

The hobbit froze quite suddenly.  His eyes went wide, and he stood as still and full of fright as a doe before a hunter’s bow.  Standing only a dozen feet away was none other than Strider, his guide; behind him, in an outcropping of trees, Bilbo could see a small camp, where the man must’ve slept during the night.  Wide, horrified eyes met concerned, slate-grey ones, and Bilbo found he could not keep that gaze.  He turned to run –

“ _Bilbo_ ,”

Only, the tone of his second call was so heartfelt.  There was no shame or anger in it, but a deep, untapped well of sorrow.  Bilbo froze, back turned to Strider, unable to move forward, but neither could he turn back.  He stood still, so stuck in his own terror and embarrassment he did not hear the man coming up to him.

A third call of his name, so close to him, finally broke the spell.  Bilbo turned to see Strider kneeling in the grass but a foot away, his kind eyes darkened by sorrow and sympathy.  It hurt to meet them, to know that he had been found in his sorrow, his weakness undone before another, and it was a vulnerability he wasn’t sure he liked.  He looked down, not to Strider’s eyes but to his shoulder, still unable to hold his gaze.  All Strider did was kneel there.

Then, he held up his arms.

There was shock, for a moment, in the hobbit – but perhaps he had been waiting so long for such an invitation, that he could not deny it even from a total stranger.  Bilbo fell into Strider’s open arms, which quickly wrapped around him, and he cried and cried, until no more tears would come.

//

Balin was suspicious as soon as she saw Thorin come up out of the wine cellar.

It was late evening, their second night in the Shire, and thus far she had been the only one to return.  But the other dwarves did have much longer ways to go, so she was not worried.  Bilbo would turn up eventually.

But Thorin, she was sure, would grow impatient the longer he had to wait without news.  It was only a matter of time before he tried going out himself.  According to Oin, he was in no shape for it, and Balin had to agree.  Convincing Thorin of that would be an undertaking.

Thorin saw her, and his lips quirked in a smile.  Not his usual timid smile, not the smile of a boy-prince who’d always been told not to betray his heart and keep his emotions in check.  This was the sly, kingly smile, of a man with some scheme in mind, a man trying to overcome an enemy, and who was rather sure he could do it.

_Oh, you are up to something._   Balin thought with just a bit of amusement. _You most certainly are, you don’t fool me for a second!_

Thorin held up the bottle in his right hand.  “Bilbo has fine taste in wine.”  His smile became a dastardly grin, as he stepped past Balin to enter into the kitchen where Oin was.  “I thought we might have a small celebration?”

“What was that?”  Oin could not hear him, as they were facing away from Thorin.  Oin turned and Thorin spoke again. 

“We have had few chances to celebrate our victory in Erebor.”  That was true enough; after the battle, their King had still been gravely wounded, and remained so for months afterward.  No one would have celebrated Erebor without Thorin.  No one would even have thought of it.  And after he awoke, he was still confined to bed-rest for weeks.  Then there was the political maneuvering, and the plans to leave for the Shire… no, they had not had a formal celebration.  But somehow Balin did not think that had much to do with Thorin’s motivations now.

“Aye, true,” Oin nodded.  “It’s been a rough time.”

“That it has,” Those words were true enough.  Still, Balin kept her eye on Thorin as he set the bottles on the table.  “But soon we will have our burglar back, and the Company will be whole again.  Why not begin the festivities somewhat early?”

Don’t fall for it, Oin!  Balin glanced the healer’s way – clearly they were thinking about it.  Balin could see the indecision on their face. 

“Aye, why not?”  Oin shrugged, taking a seat, and Thorin laughed.

“And what of you, Balin?  Will you join us?”  When he turned to her, Thorin was still smiling that devious smile. 

“Who am I to deny Thorin Oakenshield?”  She smiled in return, and sat at the end of the table.  After all, if she did not participate in his scheme, she could not unravel it.  If she turned him down, he would give up this plan and devise another one.  No, better to go along with it, and figure out exactly what he was up to.

Not that it wasn’t quite clear what he was up to.  Oin made to get glasses for them – Thorin insisted that he could, since Oin had taken such good care of him, after all?  And he then poured the drink for them, and Thorin’s glass had a tad less, though not too noticeably.  Oin was too taken with a patient returning kindness to him to notice that Thorin was trying to get him drunk, so as to more easily leave unnoticed.

As if Dwalin and Thorin hadn’t done their fair share of this in their youths. This was a boy’s prank!  What did Thorin think she was, an utter idiot?  Well.  Balin lifted her glass with them, and toasted, and drank the whole thing down.  See if this boy-prince could outdrink her. 

Of course, she did not drink it all, for she was not a fool.  Winning this game meant being as sober as possible.  Luckily Bilbo was a hobbit with a fondness for greenery, and there were plenty of plants nearby to toss her drink into.  She was careful not to let them see, especially Thorin, who by the fifth round was a little red in the cheeks but clearly not as drunk as he was pretending.

Oin, meanwhile, was drinking everything, and was quite certainly going to be drunk off his ass by the time Thorin was done with him.  Hopeless.  But then, he’d grown up with Gloin for a brother, not Dwalin, so perhaps his childhood hadn’t been fraught with tomfoolery, as Balin’s had.

In Erebor, Balin had been closest companions with Dis, who was at the time the only other woman in the immediate royal family, and was also Balin’s age.  They became very close.  And of course, when their siblings came along, each about the same age as well, then Thorin and Dwalin too because close as kin.  The four of them were quite a lot of trouble, long before Fili and Kili ever were alive to think up pranks.  But Balin and Dis were the oldest, and taught their little brothers every trick in the book.  And here was Thorin trying to play the game against her!  Ha!

But she played along, slurred her voice, and acted just enough of a drunk to seem real without overplaying it.  By the time midnight rolled around, Oin was asleep at their chair, and both Thorin and Balin were a bit weak-kneed themselves.  They helped one another walk back to their rooms, where surely Thorin thought Balin would fall into a deep slumber.  If she’d really drunk as much as Thorin thought, she certainly would have!

But as it was, she stood inside her room, listening, and sure enough, soon she heard the sounds of footsteps down the hall.  She waited until it sounded as if Thorin had gone out the front door, to follow.  She hurried to the entryway and out the door – to find Thorin standing there, waiting for her.

A bit surprised, Balin slid to a halt.  Thorin was smiling again: not his shy smile, nor his fake one, but a genuine, friendly expression.  And in his hands, he held a book.

“What took you?”

Flabberghasted, Balin shook her head.  “Here I thought I had one over you, but it seems I was expected.”

Thorin’s look softened further.  “I would not have done this, but in great need.  Oin would not understand, but I knew if I could speak to you –“

“You think me a softer touch, hm?”  She said so kindly, because the truth was, she was.  She always would be for this foolish boy, this lion with a lamb’s heart. 

“Bilbo thinks me dead.”

“What!?”  Startled, Balin could only listen in horror as Thorin explained, and then showed her the passage in the hobbit’s diary which proved her.  Balin read in horror and growing agony Bilbo’s somber words, noticed the same tear marks Thorin had noticed, and felt the same pain Thorin had felt.  “Oh, Bilbo…”

“You understand?”  Thorin sounded almost frantic, sorrow clear in his eyes.  “I must see him.  I cannot let him suffer a moment longer, lounging in my sick bed while he mourns me miles away!  I –“

“Yes, laddie, yes, I’m with you,” Wasn’t she always?  Sighing, Balin put a hand upon Thorin’s shoulder.  “I’m with you.  Tis only… we should hire someone to take us north.”  Thorin blinked at her.  “I think we’re a wee bit too drunk to manage horses, don’t you?”

He laughed at that.  “True enough!”  There was joy in his eyes, where a moment ago he’d been so sad.  Or, perhaps it wasn’t joy – perhaps it was hope.  They were going to find Bilbo, and free him from this unwarranted pain.  They would see their hobbit again! 

Balin would worry about Oin kicking her arse when she got back.


	6. Elves and Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili and Kili run into some trouble with orcs, and Thorin and Balin find the same with elves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story now has a prequel - "Of the Mighty Stars", which does quite a lot to explain the backstory of Elladan, Elrohir, Elrond, Aragorn, and Azog, all of whom will become increasingly important as the story continues.

The second dwarf to return to Bag End was Gloin.  He’d been off to Michel Delving the day before, which was somewhat farther than Tuckborough, and he’d stayed the night in an inn.  That morning, he’d not felt like walking, so he’d rented a pony and rode back to Hobbiton, to find Bag End mostly empty, and his sibling on their back in the kitchen, surrounded by wine bottles.

Gloin knelt down over Oin, wide eyed, watching as his elder groaned and blocked the sunlight with their hands.  “Well,” The red-head mumbled.  “If this doesn’t bring back memories.”

“Shut up,” Oin grumbled, hardly understandable through their hands.  “Don’t say a word.  Don’t say anything.  Nothing.”

Gloin stood back, hands held up in retreat.  “Not a word.  I’ll just – look about and make my own assumptions.”  It looked rather like there’d been a party in the kitchen, with only Oin left behind.  “You were played weren’t you?”

That brought a string of curses from the healer, who was stumbling to their feet, using the table as a prop.  “I’ll kill him,” Oin muttered, still on one knee.  “If he’s alive when I find him, I’m gonna kill him.  And that traitorous daughter of Fundin, too.”

“Balin was in on this?”  Gloin had to laugh at that.  “I’d never have guessed.  Though, it’s strange enough imagining Thorin getting you drunk off your ass.”

“No.  _Speaking_.”  Oin, finally standing, was slumped forward with a hand pressed to their head.  “None.  Not until we find that boy and his accomplice and strangle them both.”  The dwarf almost fell then – and Gloin was right at their side, taking hold of their arm and shoulder, steadying them.

Just like the old days, Gloin thought, looking over his sibling’s tired, grumpy face.  Oin had never exactly been a drunk.  They never drank much, and they weren’t that fond of beer.  Back in Erebor, before the dragon, well – folk liked to remember that time almost idyllically, like a dream long lost.   But it had never been that perfect.  And when things had gotten too hard, or too many dwarves had been lost under Oin’s care, then Gloin usually found the dwarf much like this.

They weren’t exactly good memories, so Gloin forced them out of his mind, and helped Oin into a chair.

“Seems you’re not in much of a state to go anywhere,” He sighed at the glower that got him.  “Not that that’s going to stop you.”

“Course not.”  Oin, still rubbing their head, agreed.  “I’ve a patient out there.”

“A runaway patient.”

“Yes, and next time I’ve got him, I won’t be making the mistake of trusting him.  No, it’ll be 24-hour watch at his door and a bell tied around his neck, just you wait and see!”

Gloin almost felt sorry for Thorin, then.  Almost.

//

 

It was one thing to take comfort from a close friend in times of need, but it was quite another to fall sobbing into a practical stranger’s arms.

Embarrassment did not quite cover it.  Bilbo was mortified.  Like a little hobbit child he’d let Strider cradle him and sob out his heart, and the man had been kind enough not to say a word of it since.  They’d been up and on the road for a good hour, and the whole trip had been taken in silence.

Bilbo was not sure what to say.  Thank you?  I’m sorry?  It was true, he felt much better overall, but now he felt – awkward, stiff around the man, unsure of how to act.  Should he pretend nothing had happened?  The uncertainty of it was driving him mad!

“Here we are,” He heard the Ranger say, and perked up some. 

“Here, where?”  They were coming up the top of a ridge, which Strider had already mounted quickly.  Bilbo, staying by the pony, had fallen somewhat behind.

“The passage to Ered Luin, Master Bilbo,” Strider called back to him. 

The hobbit jumped.  “Already?”  Surely it wasn’t that close?

“Not your destination, I’m afraid, but the region itself,” The Ranger smiled as Bilbo came closer, feeling embarrassment color his cheeks.

“Oh, right.”  It couldn’t be that easy, after all.  But the hobbit was quickly distracted from such bitter thoughts by the sight before him.

Below, the road extended on, sloping downward to a sheer cliff, which overlooked a thin river some distance below.  A bridge connected one side to the other, and beyond, up above a series of steadily rising hills, was a city.

“Duillond,” Strider told him, taking hold of the pony’s reigns and leading it forward.  “An elven city.”

“Elves?”  A little smile came upon Bilbo’s face.  “I thought Ered Luin was home to dwarves?”

“For the most part,” His companion told him.  “But this path also follows the road elves take to the sea.  Many have settled along its winding ways.”  The man turned his own smile to the hobbit.  “Tonight, we may take advantage of their hospitality.”

//

“Fili, look out!”

The warning almost came too late – suddenly, out of nowhere, the two boys were surrounded by orcs, coming from everywhere at once.  The pony reared, and Fili took tight hold of the reins just in time.  But it was all he could do.  Using his only hand to hold on, he could do naught but watch in terror as orcs turned upon his brother.  They were separated, with at least two dozen orcs around them, and ten between them, and hands were grabbing at Fili and pulling at the pony, if they dragged him down he’d be done for –

“KILI!”

The younger dwarf was holding his own, a sword in one hand, the reins in the other, but there were too many.  Orcs were grabbing at him, pulling him down, and he could only fight so many at a time.  Then – TWACK!  From out of nowhere, an arrow struck an orc straight between the eyes, and then another went right through an orc’s arm as the beast moved to grab Kili.

Fili hardly had a moment to wonder at their luck before he was dragged to the ground.  He didn’t go for his sword, too long and ungainly in this space.  Instead, his hand dove beneath fur-lined cloth and removed a dagger, which he jabbed into the leg nearest him.  A screech rang out at that; he kicked out, knocking another orc away, and as soon as he could be he was on his feet, fighting.  There were many, but they weren’t expecting a fight, and they weren’t prepared for a Son of Durin.

Soon enough, the fight was over, with most of the orcs dead, or running.  Fili stood breathless in the aftermath, chaos ringing in his ears, and he knew there was no way they had been defeated by just the two of them.  The archer had to be nearby.  Spinning round, the dwarf scanned the horizons near them looking for the one who’d helped them – only to see an army of orcs coming their way, twenty yards off.

“Fili,” His brother’s voice was thin with panic, looking back at him across the distance.  “Fili, we have to go, we have to move!” 

Just as he was turning to race for his brother, Kili was struck from behind.  An arrow to the shoulder, the shock of which had him gasping and falling to his knees.  Bow falling from limp hands, Kili crashed upon the ground, and Fili watched in dawning horror as the orcs came upon him. 

**_“NO!”_ **

Fili had no thoughts for any but his brother, and went to run for him, before he suddenly found himself picked up off the ground.

They were running; that is, someone much larger than a dwarf was running, holding him aloft.  It was undignified and in any other circumstance, Fili would’ve been pissed.  As it was, he wasn’t feeling much of anything but terror.

“Wait!”  He beat against the arm around him, with all the strength in his good arm.  “No!  I won’t leave him!”

“Calm yourself, dwarf!”  A lilting voice, which replied with such haughty bearing it could only belong to an elf, told him.  “You will be no good to your brother dead!”

They kept on, ignoring him, though he fought with all his might; and when they finally stopped and set him loose he turned upon them, drawing his daggers.

“Who are you?”  He spat.

Two elves stood before him, tall, and dark haired.  “Elladan,” The first began, gesturing to the other.  “And my brother Elrohir.”

“I am sorry,” Elrohir said, brow drawn together in a sad attempt at pity.  “But we could not save you both.”

“If the dwarf yet lives,” The other interrupted.  “Then the orcs will take him with them as their prisoner.  If you wish to save him, you’d be better served coming with us to head them off.”

He was of half a mind to simply run back and attack now; and it seemed the elf knew it.  Anger and fear driving him, Fili went to return only to have an elf step in his way.  He tried moving round him; they would not have it, following him.

“Let me pass!”  Fili roared raising his daggers to attack if need be.

“Trust me when I say I understand,” The elf – Elladan? – began, holding up his hands.  “But if you do not go about this the right way, he will die regardless.  Live, be patient, and you may yet save him.”

He did not want to heed them; the fire in his veins could but barely be quenched.  But Fili took in a deep breath, squeezed the hilts of his blades tight, then sheathed them, and nodded.

“Fine,” He said quietly.  “I assume you have a plan.”

//

“It had to be elves,” Thorin grumbled for perhaps the seventh time, as he and Balin mounted the hill to Duillond.

It was a grey city, a place of memory and mourning, one of the last elven cities before Mithlond, and the Grey Havens.  Elves making their last journey through Middle-Earth would come to Duillond, before making their way to the ships which would take them west.  It was a small city, with few who truly called it home.  Even those who had lived there for years only lingered to make their final farewells before leaving for good.

The city stood at the mouth of the Needlehole Pass, the first city to be found on the other side of the mountains in Ered Luin.  Which, of course, made it the most likely place that Bilbo Baggins would have gone to stay for the night.

“We will ask for word of him, and move on.”  Thorin insisted as they came to the bridge.  The bridge was dwarven make, built to connect the many settlements of those people across Ered Luin.  A long ways down, the river Lune ran below them, towards the sea.

“And go where, laddie?”  Balin gave a sigh.  Clearly this was not the first debate the two had had on the subject.  “Gondamon is another two days north.”

Thorin might’ve let out a few frustrated curses in Khuzdul at that, but he argued no more.

They were not greeted at weapon-point, which was a good sign, at least.  But then, these elves had been living much more closely to dwarves for some time, and had perhaps become more accustomed to them.

Thorin cared little.  He wanted to find Bilbo and leave this terrible place.  Merely standing before the front gate made him twitch.

Balin quickly took over introductions and explanations, which she had always been better at, and the two were permitted to stay a night in one of the guest suites.  Thorin thanked the elf, at least, but he was glowering and gloomy all the while.

Once they had lodgings, the two immediately took to looking for Bilbo.  They wandered the city, explored every crevice, and spoke to the locals (a task left almost entirely to Balin).  No one had seen a hobbit in Duillond, nor a suspicious looking Man.  Hours went by with no success, leaving Thorin all the more aggravated and furious with elves.

“He has to be here!”  He fumed that evening in their shared quarters.  The dwarf paced so heavily it seemed he might go through the floor.  “The innkeeper told us they had already left.  There is nothing else between the Needlehole and Ered Luin!”

“We might have to consider that they slept somewhere on the road.  Or, they slipped further ahead of us than we thought.”  Sighing, Balin ran a hand over her forehead.  “Let’s just get some rest Thorin, and start again in the morning.”

“No,” Frowning, Thorin clenched his fists.  “I cannot.  Not when I know he must be so close.”  If he’d seemed angry earlier, no longer – his eyes were shining, and his voice trembled upon the last word.

“Oh, Thorin,” Another sigh escaped Balin as she approached him.  “I know how you care for the lad, but you need rest.  Oin was right, you really don’t need to be out of bed.”  Thorin turned away, pointedly ignoring how his every muscle ached, how his bones seemed to throb with every step he took.

“I will rest, Balin,” He replied, voice softer than before.  Thorin turned to her.  “But I could not sleep now if I tried.”  At that, he turned and left, not looking to see if Balin was following after.

//

Oin and Gloin had their bags half-packed to go when the doorbell rang.

Gloin looked at his sibling and shrugged.  “Maybe he repented and came back?”

Oin chuckled darkly, heading for the door.  “That’ll be the day.” 

No, it was no dwarf standing on the doorstep.  It was a hobbit; a hobbit who looked remarkably similar to Bilbo Baggins, but for his pitch-black hair.

“Um, hello,” The hobbit began, clutching his hat before him like a life-line.  “Is Bilbo home?”

“You’ll have to speak up,” Oin started, lifting his horn.  “I can’t hear mumbling.”

“Oh!  Um,” If possible, the hobbit looked even more frightened for being asked to speak loudly.  “Is Bilbo Baggins home?”  He shouted. 

“No, he’s not.”  Oin told him as Gloin came up beside him.  “Who’s asking?”

“Drogo, his brother!” the hobbit replied in just as loud a voice. 

“Come on, now, just speak like a normal fellow, you don’t have to shout!” 

“I – I’m sorry, maybe I should just –“

“Did you say Bilbo’s brother?”  Gloin’s question stopped him. 

“Y – yes?”

“We’re looking for Bilbo – and a few others,” Gloin added. “Ourselves.  Perhaps you could help us?”

“Oh, well,” The nervous hobbit shrugged.  “Okay.”

“Great,” Oin grinned, turning to go back into the house and get his things.  “Come on, we haven’t all day!  They’ve a good twelve hour’s lead on us!”

Gloin let out a sigh at the hobbit’s disturbed expression.  “Don’t mind them.”  Gloin muttered.  “Married to their work.”  Stepping outside, he put a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder, and the poor thing about jumped.  “Now, can you tell us where the stables are?”

//

He remembered thinking, _Damn, not this again_ , before he went under.  Then the world was a blur of color and sound, pain running through it all.  Hazy and distant, he drifted between waking and sleep, recalling only that for a time it seemed there was a battle going on around him, and then he was being carried away…

When he awoke, the pain was less, and his mind had cleared some.  Kili struggled to sit up only to feel his only body ache in protest.  He collapsed back upon the pallet he was lying on, and with half-lidded eyes, glanced round.

It was a camp site.  Not the orc’s, it was too small for that, and the grove they were in too quiet.  There were only two figures, himself, and someone very tall, clad in black, wearing a hood.  They sat across from him, lit by a dim fire that danced between them.  Again, the dwarf tried sitting up.

“I think – I have you to thank for saving my life.”  Mahal only knew how.  That was Morgul poison, he knew that much, and the last time he’d been struck with such a thing, it had taken an elf’s healing prowess to save him.  Who was this stranger that he could accomplish the same?

“You do,” The voice was low and gravelly, and… somewhat familiar.  Kili frowned. 

“Who are you?”

“A stranger, leave it at that.”  The other huffed, turning. 

“I would have my savior’s name at least.”

“I have none I am willing to part with.”  Grumbling, the stranger stood, approaching a horse that was nearby.  “What is it men say – do not look gift horses in the mouth?”

“So you are not a man,” Kili smirked.  “An elf, then?  Though you’re rather… large… for their kind.”  Seeing him standing, it became clear he was enormous – broader than a dwarf, and at least twice as tall.  Practically a giant!

The figure froze; then, he turned, and pulled back his head. Kili felt his voice catch in his throat.

“There,” Azog the Defiler snarled at him.  “Satisfied?”

//

 The elves were quite glad to let Bilbo and Strider stay the night; and when Strider requested that their presence remain entirely secret, they were quick to agree.  In fact, Bilbo found it almost odd how easily this man got on with the elves, but then, his only other experience with elven hospitality included a surly band of dwarves. 

Still…

“They seemed to like you, Mr. Strider.”

They were sitting in their shared suite; one hall connected two grand bedrooms.  Given they were man-sized, Bilbo felt quite overwhelmed indeed.  The fact that the Ranger did not look comfortable, either, made him feel somewhat better.

Strider glanced up at him.  “They did, did they?”  The smile he wore was almost a smirk but not quite.  “They are a friendly people.”

“I have some friends who would disagree, but then I’ve always felt they were biased on the subject.”

That made him laugh; he was in the midst of removing some of his gear, though Bilbo saw he did not go entirely unarmed or unprotected even here.  “I imagine that is a bias which exists upon both sides.”

The memories that particular thought summoned put a bitter taste into Bilbo’s mouth.  “Indeed.”

“But you are right,” Sitting to remove his mud-covered boots, Strider continued.  “I am known to the elves, and for that I am afforded some kindness.”

Curiosity piqued, Bilbo sat himself in a chair by the window.  “Have you worked with elves before?”

“No, but I was raised among them.”

That sent the hobbit’s eyebrows up towards his hairline.  “Truly?”

First one boot, then another came off, and then the Ranger slipped on the elven slippers set out for him by the bed.  “My parents were attacked, and my father killed, when I was a child.  Elves rescued my mother and I and took us to Imladris, where I was fostered until I came of age.”

“Rivendell,” Bilbo said breathlessly.  “It must’ve been a wonder to grow up there.”

A chuckle was Strider’s response.  “It was wondrous, at times.”  Picking up one of the robes on the bed, Strider folded it over his arm, and then stood.  A little bitterness leaked into his tone as he continued.  “But it was not always what you might imagine it to be.”  Quiet, Strider gave a little sigh, then a forced smile appeared upon his face.  “Forgive me, but I must take my leave.”  He bowed slightly, and Bilbo found himself leaping to his feet to return the gesture.  Then, the Ranger left the room, leaving Bilbo to his own thoughts.

“Raised by elves…” He wondered aloud. 

Who was this strange man, really?

//

 “You!”

Kili backed away quickly, best as he could, but he was tangled up in his blankets and still wounded besides.  Immediately he sought for a weapon but found none, and to his own horror, realized he was injured and defenseless with the Defiler right in front of him!

Said orc let out a quiet, aggravated string of orcish, which Kili imagined were probably insults, threats, or some other foul thing.  “What do you want?”  He spat, lifted his good arm.  “If you think Uncle Thorin –“

“ _Uncle_ Thorin?”

Feeling a cold tremor coming on, Kili shut his trap.

“I knew you were one of his company,” The orc drawled.  “But you are family as well?”

“What’s it to you?”

The scowling figure approached the fire, and Kili tried very hard to ignore his rising fear. His heart was a drum beneath his breast, his head hazy and alight with terror.  But the orc merely sat down where he’d been before.

“I owe your family a debt.”  Azog began.  “Saving your life may help to repay it.”

Slack jawed, Kili felt nervous laughter bubbling up his throat.  “You cannot be serious.  You’re Azog!  Uncle’s greatest enemy!  What debt could you possibly owe him?”

“That is my concern, not yours,” The orc grumbled.  “Just don’t die, so I can make good on my word.”

“This is some trick.”  Frowning, Kili made to stand again, but his legs gave.  He ignored the orc’s insistence that he sit down and stop being an idiot, and took hold of a nearby tree for support.  “You mean to use me to hurt Uncle somehow.  As bait, or – or a ransom!”

“Yes, that is why I fought my own people to save your life.”  Azog replied dryly.  “You are very quick, Master Dwarf.  Just brilliant.”

“Now you –“ His legs wavered beneath him, but Kili took tighter hold of the tree, and managed to stand.  Why was he so tired?  “You listen here!  I won’t let you hurt my family!”

“It’s a good thing I mean them no harm then, since you’re in no place to do anything.”

Scoffing, Kili searched for words but struggled to find them.  This was – ludicrous!  Ridiculous!  “You can’t expect me to believe that.”

“Astonishing as it might be to you, I don’t actually care.”  The orc lifted his claw, and Kili’s throat tightened.  But he merely used it to cut into the apple in his hand.  “Sit down and eat, dwarfling.  You will survive the night, I promise.”  Azog held out the slices of apple.  Kili stared.

“No.”

Azog stared him down with a look, shrugged, and ate a piece himself.  “There,” He mumbled between bites.  “Now will you eat?”

This was some sort of vile trick.  It had to be.  Nothing else made sense.  But… he was starving.  And apparently, given that they were alone and there were no other orcs in sight, Azog had rescued him.  But why?  For what purpose?  He couldn’t really owe Uncle a debt?

“Fine,” Sliding down to the ground, Kili reached out and snatched the apple from the orc.  “But I’ve got my eyes on you!”

The orc made a deep, rumbling sound then, and Kili could’ve sworn he was laughing at him.

//

Thorin didn’t keep searching that night; Balin was right, he was tired and sore and in need of a good wash.  So, frustrated and dejected he gave up and sought out the bathhouses, grumbling all the while. 

He’d thought making it to the Shire would be the difficult part.  No, more honestly, he’d thought speaking to the hobbit would be hardest.  But here he was, still trying to _find_ the damn halfing, still not sure of what he might say when they actually met!

The whole thing was a mess.

Sighing, Thorin sank into the hot waters gratefully, taking to the temporary distraction with relief.  He was glad it was mostly empty; there was only one other there, and they weren’t an elf.  He didn’t think he could be so relaxed around elves.

It was… strange, that there was a man in Duillond.  He was tall, with long dark hair and grey eyes, and for a moment Thorin wondered if he might be the strange vagabond Bilbo was traveling with.  But the clothes set aside for him were fine, and his look was not so grim as all that.  He did not have the bearing of a thief.

But he certainly was an odd sight.

The man caught his gaze.  Thorin realized he’d been staring and turned away.  “Forgive me,” He began.  “I did not expect to see a man in this city of elves.”

“Nor I a dwarf,” The man replied.  “May I ask your name?”

He hesitated, before nodding.  “Thorin, Son of Thrain.”

The man’s eyes lifted.  “Of the Line of Durin?”  Thorin nodded, and the man lowered his gaze.  “I am honored.”

He never knew what to say to that, deep down, behind all the bravado and the training.  Politically, he knew what he should say, or how he should act.  But to have others be honored by his presence merely at first meeting him, when he’d done naught to earn it… “Thank you.”  He found himself saying.  It wasn’t exactly right, but it felt right to say.  And they were not in Erebor anymore.

The man smiled.  “I am Strider, a Ranger, here to visit kin.”

“You have family among the elves?”

“On the coast,” The man was quick to say.  “In Lindon.”

Well, that made more sense, at least.  They lapsed into companionable silence, and Thorin let his head fall back.  He was so very tired.

“Forgive me,” The man started to speak again.  “But might I ask a question of you?”

Without looking up, Thorin replied. “You have already, but you may ask another.”  That was an old trick, one Fili and Kili always grumbled about. They fell into it every time, always griping about ‘ _You know what I mean, Uncle!’_

The man chuckled.  “You sound like my father,” He said.  “He used to say the same to me.  I wonder – that is… is it very hard, being a king?”

Thorin lifted his head, an incredulous look upon his face.  “Is it hard?”

Strider flushed scarlet.  “Well, that is – I’m sorry, I’m only curious… what it’s like.”  He glanced away.  “I realize you are a King no longer, but I thought you might – know something.  Anything.”

He seemed dreadfully grim about it, for it being a mere question of curiosity.  “Being a ruler defines you.  Even if you do not sit upon a throne, or wear a crown, it is still a burden you carry in your heart.  You must ever be aware of it, of your place among your people, and what you must do to serve the legacy that has been handed down to you.”  Thorin glanced down to his reflection in the water.  “So yes, it is very hard.”

“Is there a way to know… if you’ll be a good king?”

A few different responses came to mind.  He mulled over them all, unable to pick upon one.  “You must try.”  Thorin began.  “There is no knowing until you have taken it on yourself.  You might train your whole life for the position only to take it on and realize you… were never meant for it.”  Clenching his hands tight, Thorin scowled.  “You were never worthy of it.”

“I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“No, lad, I am fine.”  He huffed.  “I have moved on.”  He still had people to care for, a family to protect.  “I may not be a King, but I am still an Heir of Durin, and I will do my duty to my people.  I will protect and serve them until my end comes.”  Lifting his gaze, he met the man’s eyes.  “That is all a King can truly do.”

Strider, eyes wide, gave a firm nod.  “I – thank you.”  He began to climb out, drying off and putting on his robe.  As he did, Thorin caught sight of something on his hand: a beautiful ring, made of twin snakes curling around a green gem. 

“For what it is worth,” Strider said, turning to look over his shoulder.  His words drew Thorin’s attention away from the captivating ring.  “I do not think you were unworthy of being King.  Perhaps the Valar simply have another task for you, for which you are worthier still.”  Then, with a slight smile, he turned, and left out the door.

Thorin stared after him for quite a while.

//

Bilbo was half-dressed for bed when Strider appeared before him in a hurry.

“Your dwarf friends are here.” 

“What?”  Panic tickling his throat, Bilbo leapt to his feet.  “Where?  Have they seen us?”

The man quirked an eyebrow.  “They saw me, but I did not tell them I was with you.”

A relieved sigh escaped him.  “Oh, good.”

“You… don’t wish to see them?”

“No!”  Still shivering, Bilbo stood.  “Heavens, no.”  He turned and made for his bag, digging through it, not to look for anything particularly but because he suddenly had quite a bit of nervous energy and needed something to do with it.

“This relates somehow to your grief, does it not?”

The hobbit froze, hands buried in the bag.  “Well… yes.”  He sighed.  Nerves skittered across his skin, but he bit his lip and turned around.  “I suppose you deserve to know since I, well, made a mess of myself in front of you.”

“It was no trouble, Master Baggins,” Strider held up his hands, trying to placate him, but Bilbo shook his head.

“For one, you can drop that ‘Master’ bit.”  He said sternly.  “You’ve seen me a sobbing mess, I think you’ve earned the right to call me Bilbo.” A little flush stole across his cheeks, but he looked determined and entirely sure of himself.

Strider smiled.  “Very well, Bilbo.”

Nodding, the hobbit glanced around, took a seat on the bed.  “It’s just… we did not part so well.”  He began, feeling his anxiety crawling through him.  He clasped his hands tightly in his lap.  “And I made some absolutely dreadful mistakes, and a lot of bad things happened.  I … hurt people, who I love – loved –“ His voice again caught upon the past tense.  “Very much, and I’m not sure I can face all that right now.”  Tears welling in his eyes, Bilbo wiped away at them.  “Can we talk about something else right now?”  He met Strider’s eyes, afraid of what he might see, but the man’s gaze was kind and understanding.  He nodded.

“Of course, M – Bilbo.”

//

That night, sitting with Balin in their shared room, smoking a pipe, Thorin thought over the strange man.  “Balin,” He asked, staring out the window. 

“Aye?”  His friend was getting dressed for bed behind him. 

“I seem to remember from my lessons so long ago,” He began, setting his pipe aside.  “A certain symbol:  two snakes, curled into the shape of a ring, around a green gem.”

“Yes, that would be the Ring of Barahir,” Balin told him.  “An heirloom of the kings of men.  It is meant to be kept by Isildur’s heir, the rightful king of Gondor, though whether it is still held by anyone is a mystery.  That line likely died out long ago.”

Thorin did not reply.  He put his pipe back to his lips, the red ember lighting up his eyes, and kept his thoughts to himself.

 


	7. The Attack Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orcs have come upon Buckland, and there's only one place the hobbits can retreat to - the Old Forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was fun to write. Warning for some cissexism possibly, as Bilbo is attempting to understand Aragorn's gender and is slightly confused.

That evening, Thorin and Balin rested under the roof of Duillond; and as they slept, a Ranger and a hobbit crept stealthily out of the city.

“I hate to leave like this,” Aragorn heard Bilbo say behind them, very quietly.  “It was quite a lovely place, and I’ll regret not having a bed to rest on later.  But I just couldn’t chance them finding us in the morning.”  He paused, and they kept on down the hill, towards the woods in the distance.  “Thank you, for understanding, by the way.”

“Think nothing of it.”  Aragorn told him.  “I know something of – needing distance.”  They trailed off, keeping their thoughts to themself; Bilbo did not pry, something the ranger was thankful for.

“How so?  If – if you don’t mind my prying.”

They considered it, for a moment, a rising swell of bitterness and guilt coming over them as they contemplated the memories.  “A few years ago, I left Rivendell to train with the Rangers in the North,” Aragorn began.  “Before I departed, my father and I had a – disagreement.  I said some things I am not sure I should have said, things I would take back… but I don’t know if I can.”  A grim expression appeared on their face, as dark as the feelings twisting inside their gut, the loss and sorrow and anger.

“You said your father had died?”

“He is not my father by blood,” Aragorn clarified as they came upon the road.  Turning, the Ranger awaited Bilbo with the pony, keeping sharp eyes upon their surroundings.  It was not always safe to travel at night on the road… “He has fostered me since I was very small.”

“Ah.”  Bilbo, who had come to walk beside Aragorn, gave a light nod.  “I know something of arguing with fathers.”

Aragorn glanced to him.  “Did you do so often?”

“Oh, yes!”  Chuckling, the hobbit shook his head.  His gaze fell down to the road, as if its rocks and stones might carry the very memories he spoke of.  “My father was a quiet, conservative fellow, who preferred a peaceful night in to a walk on the town.  I took after my mother, as a child: brash, excitable, always running off somewhere.”  Another laugh, but this one was tinged with mourning.  “You know, we actually argued the day he died.”

Wide eyed, Aragorn felt their own heart seize at the thought.  “I’m sorry.”

“It’s the past.”  By the look on the hobbit’s face, it wasn’t quite so simple.  He seemed very distraught, his smile weak, eyes dim.  Then he looked up, to Aragorn.  “What did you fight with your father about?”

The ranger glanced away.  Heat rose to their cheeks, their fists clenched, as they played over the whole foolish thing in their mind.  “He kept something from me, something very important.  A secret I should have known about.”

Perhaps the fire in Aragorn’s words took the hobbit off guard, for he fell quiet for a few minutes.  When he did reply, his voice was tentative, cajoling.  “Well,” Bilbo started.  “I always found my father and I fought the most when he was trying to protect me, though I didn’t always see it that way.”  Looking to the Ranger, he continued.  “Maybe he didn’t tell you because he was trying to protect you from it?”

Aragorn didn’t reply; they scowled, turning their gaze to the road ahead of them, and fell quiet.

//

“What are we looking for, Ori?”

The younger dwarf frowned at the impatient tone his brother spoke with.  “I’m not sure, okay?  Just – something hobbit-y?”  Shrugging, Ori turned back to the ground, kneeling in the dirt, shoving leaves and twigs aside.  “There has to be something else here.”

“Don’t know,” Nori, standing a few feet away, replied.  “It’s been a while, now, his meat and bones might’ve been pillaged, eaten, worn down.  Long gone.”

Ori knew that was the likeliest outcome, but he scowled at the remark nonetheless.  “If there’s any chance we can find Mr. Bilbo’s father’s remains, we should!”  He insisted, continuing to root around.  “He’s done so much for us, we owe him.”

“I’m not saying we don’t.”  Approaching his little brother, Nori knelt, and put a hand on his shoulder.  “I’m only saying, we might not be able to make it up to him this way.”

Ori’s digging slowed to a halt.  Hunkered down, he let out a sigh.  “You’re probably right.”  Then, realizing the extent of his own foolishness, he let out a groan and hid his head in his hands.  “Oh!  What’ve I done?  Run off without a word on a wild goose chase and dragged you along with me!”

Nori just laughed, patting his shoulder.  “You didn’t drag me anywhere, Or.”

“Dori’s going to kill me!”

“Oh, he’s gonna kill one of us,” The thief drawled.  “But I’ll bet it won’t be you.”  He let Ori remain where he was a moment longer, before helping him up.  “Come on, we’d better get going.”  They stood, and side by side, made for the main road.

“Sorry,” The younger brother grumbled.  His heart had sunk to his feet, and he felt very much like the child Dori always treated him as.  This hadn’t been a well thought out plan, and Thorin was sure to be furious with them when they got back.  And he’d gotten Nori in trouble too!  He said as much, but his brother just laughed.

“I’m used to being in trouble.”  He said, before pulling Ori to him and ruffling his hair.  The boy squawked, trying to fight back and being mostly unsuccessful, but he could feel his heart lifting.  At least Nori had his back. 

Suddenly, his brother stiffened, and dragged him to the ground.  “Nori, what -?”

“Quiet!”  He spat as he fell on his front, pulling Ori down with him.  “Look.” 

Unsure what his brother meant, he looked to him, to see Nori nodding at the road.  Ori carefully peered up through the leaves, and –

“Oh, Mahal!”

The main road was littered with orcs.  It was a camp, at least a thousand strong, probably more, set up right there on the main passage like it was nothing!  They were a mere twenty feet away from the two dwarves, and more importantly –

“What are they doing on the borders of the Shire?”  He whispered to his brother.

“Nothing good,” Nori whispered, tugging at his sleeve.  “Come on!”  They both stood, quickly and quietly, and darted back into the forest.

//

An hour or so out of town, the two finally made camp and took some rest.  But by the time the early morning sun had risen, Strider was waking Bilbo.

“Time to get up,” He said gently.  Shaking the hobbit’s shoulder once more, he turned to their campfire, and breakfast.  “We’ve some ways to go yet, and the Shire has little time.”

That, more than anything, penetrated Bilbo’s groggy mind.  He sat up, rubbing at his eyes with a yawn.  “Yes, I suppose you are quite right.”  In truth, the thought of what might happen – what would eventually happen – when the goblins attacked chilled him to the bone.  He could only hope they’d be there in time, and he dreaded the thought of what would happen if they weren’t…

Suddenly he was quite awake and ready to go, practically leaping off his bedroll.  “Yes, I think we should get moving, quick as we can.” 

“Not so quick as that.”  The ranger chuckled.  “Eat, at least.  You’ll need your strength.”

“Oh, I’ve gotten rather good at missing meals, to be honest.”  The hobbit gave a bitter laugh as he started rolling up his blankets.  “On the journey to Erebor, the dwarves only ever stopped for three, sometimes only two, meals a day.  Two!”  Scoffing, Bilbo shook his head.  Only to look up and see the man looking at him with a quizzical expression.

“How many times should they have stopped?”

“Well,” Shrugging, he began counting off on his fingers.  “There’s breakfast, elevenses, tea, brunch, luncheon, afternoon snack, dinner, supper, and sometimes another cup of tea before bed.”  He looked over his hand and, satisfied, gave a nod, returning to his task.  “And while I understand that on a mission of such import sacrifices must be made, two meals was just pushing it!”

“I’m sorry,” He looked up to see Strider still staring at him, wide eyed.  “But hobbits eat how many times a day?”

He cocked his head.  “About seven or eight, I suppose.”  Returning to packing, he did not see the man noiselessly mouth ‘seven or eight’ in shock, and kept right on chatting.  “The dwarves were mighty surprised when they learned how much a hobbit really does eat.  They thought they were able to put it away, well,” Smiling, he gave a proud nod, and tied his things together.  “that gave them a right shock.  Of course, they felt bad about it, once they realized I was so hungry; Thorin even tried to…”

Bilbo’s hands fell still, his posture slumping.  For a moment, he’d forgotten the dwarf was gone.  It was just so very hard to believe.  He could still remember the King’s embarrassed face, how put out he’d looked when Bilbo had admitted that yes, hobbits eat quite a bit more than dwarves, though he’d insisted he was fine and no one needed to make any fuss.  Still, that night at dinner, Thorin had sat beside him, thrusting his own plate towards the hobbit.  Bilbo had been mightily embarrassed, and even ashamed, to think of taking food from Thorin, but the dwarf had gruffly insisted he wasn’t hungry and to “Just eat it, Bilbo.”

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Bilbo went about attaching his bedroll to the bottom of his bag, before slipping it on.  “Yes, I think I’m ready.”  Bilbo turned to the man.  Strider had a strange look on his face, examining the hobbit before nodding to the ground.

“Calm yourself.”  Strider insisted.  He was holding a frying pan, grilling some of the vegetables and eggs the elves had let them take from Duillond.  At the sight – and smell – of them, Bilbo felt his mouth water, and felt very keenly the sharp emptiness of his stomach.  “If it is your dwarf friends you are worried about, don’t be.  I asked that they be… held up, if possible, and I’m sure the elves will be more than happy to see to that.”

Bilbo had to laugh at that.  “Oh, no!”  Covering his mouth with his hands, he giggled, even as he sat back down.  “That’s terrible.  I hope Dwalin’s not there, he’d throw a right fit!  They all would.  Of course, Balin would set it all to rights, he was always so good at that.”

“Dwalin and Balin?”  Strider quirked an eyebrow.  “You mean the children of Fundin?”

“The very same.”

“I had thought Balin was Fundin’s daughter.”

“I…” Bilbo’s mind went blank.  “Oh dear.”  Rimli had told him dwarven genders were more ambiguous than most; and that many dwarves who were women (or otherwise) often let others assume they were men for sake of ease… and… “Oh dear!”  Going pale, Bilbo felt his anxiety skyrocket.  “Oh, poor Balin, I owe him – her – a great apology!”  And how many others did he owe apologies to in the fellowship?  “I’ve made a right fool of myself.”

“I am sure she will understand.”  Strider smiled kindly at him.  “It is not always easy when those of… different cultures, come together.”

“I’ll say.”  Huffing, Bilbo tried to shake it off, but he was damned displeased with himself.  He glanced up with Strider, feeling another spike of nerves hit.  “You, um, you are a man, aren’t you?”

Strider’s eyes met his.  He seemed reluctant, maybe anxious.  When he glanced away, he shook his head.  “No, I am not.”

Bilbo’s stomach dropped to his feet.  “Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry!  I – how should I refer to you?”

A deep frown came over the man’s face.  “Among the elves, I am _sui-rodon_ , both man and woman, and neither.  It is… not a term that translates well into Westron.  Men don’t have such a concept.”  The last words came out bitter and sharp, as if they tasted of glass in the ranger’s mouth.

Bilbo wondered why it brought so much clear anger to him, when it came to him.  “The Rangers aren’t very kind about it, are they?”

Strider lifted his gaze again.  “No,” He sighed.  “They are not.”  Half-lidded eyes turned to the ground, darkened and somber.  Bilbo did not like seeing them so; it seemed wrong, on one who was always seemed so noble, fair, and content.  “Men have strict ideas of how their people should be, of where men and women fall in their society.  I do not fit these lines, and they refuse to acknowledge them.  They have even blamed the elves for – corrupting me.  Whatever that means.”

“Well I never!”  Scoffing, Bilbo crossed his arms.  “I don’t know why you’re with those folks, but maybe it’s time to find a new place to go.  They sound like a sorry lot to me.”  The Ranger was quiet; when Bilbo looked up, he saw the man’s gaze had lifted, and he was grinning brightly.

“You are indeed a spirited fellow.”  The grin became a warm smile, as he turned back to making breakfast.  “Gandalf was right to send me to you.”

“Well,” Flushing, he smiled back.  “Thank you.”  After a moment, he considered another question.  “How should I address you, then?  Um, are there, words for being – what was it again?”

“ _Sui-rodon_ , which roughly means, ‘as the Valar’.”  Strider explained.  “Back when the world was young, and elves lived among the Valar in the West, they learned a great deal from them.  The Valar were ever-changing: they were men and women, and both, and neither, and all as one.  Some changed day to day, some drifted in-between, and some had none at all.  It was not something the elves themselves understood, at first; like Men, they had men and women.  But as they matured, they realized the variety of difference in their own people.  Those who are neither men nor women are _‘sui-rodon’_.”  A thoughtful look came to his face.  “In Rivendell, the elves referred to me with the words ‘te’ and ‘tir’, but that is not your tongue.”

“Well, I could learn it.”  Bilbo insisted, sitting up straighter. “Is ‘te’ – how do you say that, like ‘tea’?”  Strider nodded, a look of awe dawning slowly upon his face.  “Then the other, could you say that again?”

“Tir – like the water that sheds from your eyes, ‘tear’.”  Strider continued.

“Then it would be…”  Frowning thoughtfully, Bilbo put a finger to his lips.  “Strider is a Ranger from the North.  One day, te goes to Bag End to meet a hobbit, taking… tir sword with - tir?”

A big grin came over the man’s face.  He nodded.  “The hobbit te met,” Strider began, continuing the example, “was Bilbo Baggins, and there was no one in the Shire so kind, thoughtful, and brave as he.”

Bilbo flushed scarlet to his ears. 

//

Thorin watched as Balin glanced round the corner, then turned to look at him.  She nodded, and they burst into action; the first dwarf kneeling, to give the second a boost up the wall.  They were in a storage room in Duillond, attempting to reach a window near the top of the wall.  At the same time, they were avoiding the guards, who had for some ridiculous reason refused to let them pass through the front gates.

No amount of diplomatic posturing got them anywhere; no direct reasons were given, but the elves talked circles around the fact that they were all but keeping the dwarves prisoner.  Thorin had had quite enough of that, thank you, and he had a hobbit to find, besides.

“I’ve almost –“ He gritted out, reaching for the bottom lip.  “There!”  With a grin, he took firm hold, first with one hand, then the other, and pulled.  Balin pushed him skyward as best she could, and soon enough he was scrambling up onto the sill.  It was a large window, at least large enough for a dwarf, and outside it led to the wilderness of Ered Luin.

Before he dropped out the other side, Thorin turned to look at Balin.  “What of you?”  He asked.

She waved him off.  “Don’t worry about me.  I’ll find my own way out of this, and catch up with you at Gondamon.  Now, go!”  Dismissive hand gestures accented her insistence, but a smile softened it.  “Find our hobbit.”

Smiling in return, Thorin nodded, and dropped out the window.  Pain ran right through him at falling to the ground, and he hissed, hunched over from it.  But it was hardly the worst he’d ever felt; and certainly held no candle to the pains Bilbo must be holding, given his circumstances.  No, Thorin would not rest until he put this to right.  His own wounds could wait.

It was late morning; to the east, the sun was drifting heavenward over the river Lune.  He’d wasted too much time already.  Thorin got up and took to the road as soon as he felt his legs would carry him.  As he did, he thought of the little hobbit.  Little Bilbo, who never complained, and always kept his own troubles quietly to himself. 

Thorin remembered clearly the day on the Carrock, when he’d seen Bilbo for who he really was – who he could be – for the first time.  His own injuries had been grave, for certain, but the hobbit had had wounds of his own.  He’d kept them secret, hiding it until that night when Thorin caught him favoring his right leg, clutching his side.    “I don’t want to be any trouble!”  He’d insisted, face flushed from the exertion and a bit of embarrassment.  How he’d looked then: sweat-laden, dirt covered, his flaxen hair mussed and ruffled, clothes torn, buttons gone, the proper little hobbit caked in mud and blood and whatever else, acting as stubbornly as any dwarf ever did.  It had taken quite a bit of cajoling to make him even consider speaking to Oin. 

He’d thought the hobbit weak, for being untried, untouched by the wars and trials that had haunted Thorin’s life.  Now, he knew that of all of them, Bilbo Baggins had been strongest, for shouldering through something for which he’d never been prepared, and never known. 

And for him to have left, dejected and downtrodden, feeling that he had betrayed them, had failed them…

Frowning, Thorin quickened his pace, hurrying on towards the north.

//

They made camp a little past midday, sitting on the grass on the side of the road, taking advantage of the warmth and sunshine.

“Enjoy it while you may,” Strider told Bilbo.  “Before long, cold and ice will overtake them.”

Bilbo looked at him – them – oh that was going to take getting used to.  Bilbo had spent a good deal of the morning thinking about his conversation with the Ranger, and he still hadn’t quite put it all to rights in his head.  It was so – new, so strange to him, and though his Took cousins had certainly introduced him to some different ways of looking at the world, someone like Strider did not quite fit into what he knew and believed.

Neither man, nor woman?  Yet, sometimes both?  It was befuddling to say the least, but for Strider’s sake, he did his best to wrap his mind around it.  And he thought, well, certainly one could have trouble understanding something and still respect it, after all.  It would just take getting used to.

“I’ve had quite enough of cold,” He mumbled finally, turning to look forlornly upon the mountains in the distance.  “Though it seems I’ll have to bear it yet again.”

“I don’t imagine the Shire sees much of winter.” 

“No, not quite like some other places do.”  Bilbo muttered, his gaze once again settling upon the Ranger.  He… They had a sweet look to them.  Something about their posture, their stance, the way the light fell upon so grim and handsome a face… Strider was quite beautiful.  Bilbo wasn’t sure why he was noting that now.  “Ah – that is – well, there was the Fell Winter.  But that was a singular occasion, one can only hope.”

“Yes, let us hope,” Strider sighed, glancing to the grey clouds above.  “Rivendell had its share of snow.”  A thoughtful look came over them.  “I rather miss the winters there.”

At the mention of Rivendell, Bilbo felt his heart lift.  He sat, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped tight around them, likely looking for all the world like a little hobbit child eagerly awaiting a story from their elders.  “What was it like?”  Bilbo asked, admiration clear in his voice.  “Growing up there?”

Strider glanced at him askance, smirking.  “I found it pleasant enough.  I did not want for attention; I was cared for by all the Homely House, younger and less mature than even the youngest elven child.  I did not want for food or rest, and found for playmates the Lords Elladan and Elrohir, who became as brothers to me.”

“Lord Elrond’s sons?”  Bilbo’s eyes widened.  A little awe-filled smile had appeared upon his face some time before and did not seem in danger of fading.

“The very same.”  Strider nodded, smiling in response, perhaps taking some joy in the hobbit’s obvious happiness.  “I was a happy child.  I was loved, cared for, and occupied myself with the wilds within the valley, and, once I was a certain age, of the Lord’s Library.”

“Y – You were allowed into the Library of Imladris?”

The smile became a grin.  “Not merely allowed – encouraged.”  Strider turned slightly, facing Bilbo better.  “I think Lord Elrond was afraid that, solely with Elladan and Elrohir’s influence, I would become a wild ruffian, lacking any love of books.  He needn’t of worried; I came to love them just as strongly.”

“Did you know Lord Elrond well?”  Bilbo remembered the elven Lord fondly, and thought him to be a kind, generous person.  He’d of liked nothing better than to stay, when the Lord invited him, if only he could have. 

Strider’s eyes grew cold, their expression dark.  “Lord Elrond is my father.”

“… oh.”  Bilbo fidgeted very stiffly, eyes dancing all about.  “Oh!  Well,” Clearing his throat, he glanced back to the road.  “Perhaps, um, we should continue on?” 

//

Nori had expected having to face the fall-out of running off with Ori.  He did not expect having to face it almost as soon as the two of them barreled out of the woods into Buckland.

Not only was Dori there, speaking to the Bounder guarding the road, but Dwalin was at his side, and both of them looked rather like they’d swallowed a whole beehive.  As soon as Ori and Nori came stumbling to a stop a few feet away, Dori turned and his wide eyes seemed to catch fire, and his whole face turned purplish. 

“You!”  In an instant he had his hands curled around Nori’s collar, shaking him; not violently, mind you, but gently with only a hint of force, as someone might shake a jar to get the last bits of jam out of the bottom, or how one might shake a rash, reckless, danger-loving brother who worried them far too much and too often.

“I know, Dori, I know, but listen -!”

“No!  Not a word!  I won’t hear it!”

“Dori!”  Ori, grabbing at his eldest brother’s arm, earned his attention with the sheer terror in his trembling voice.  “There’s orcs!  Orcs all up and down the road!”

That got Dwalin’s attention, and the Bounder’s standing by him.  “What?”

Stepping out of Dori’s weakening hold, Nori stepped round to face both of them.  “There’s an army sitting about five miles outside Buckland, and I’d wager my whole fourteenth share of Erebor that they’re planning to attack tonight.”

“Attack where?  Here?”  The hobbit huffed and laughed.  “Orcs haven’t come into the shire for a hundred years!  What could they want here?”

“I swear it’s the truth!”  Ori insisted.  As they spoke and their voices rose, hobbits around them began to pay attention, drifting closer.  They were quickly gathering a crowd.

“Really?”  Another older hobbit approached, a dismissive frown on her face.  No one seemed very convinced.

“What banner were they flying?”  Dwalin turned to the boy.  Ori, who had quite suddenly realized he was being watched by quite a few people, began to stammer, face turning red.

Nori stepped in front of him.  “It was Moria’s.”  The dwarf told him, meeting Dwalin’s eyes.  “Azog’s, I’m sure of it.”

“Then, they’re what’s left of the army that attacked Erebor.”  Dori muttered, clenching his fists.

“What would an army of orcs from halfway across Middle-Earth be doing here?”  The bounder chuckled again, shaking his head.  “No, I’m afraid your friends have gotten into some of the Old Forest’s more muddling pests.  Maybe a hallucination or something.  Eat any mushrooms while you were in there chaps?”

“No!”  Nori spat, feeling his own face heating up.  “I’m telling you, there’s an army on your doorstep and you’ve got half a day at most to do something about it!”  His gaze scanned the crowd, and while here and there he saw a few fearful, doubting faces, most of them seemed completely unconvinced.  Which was typical, of course.  Whoever believed Nori, son-of-none, thief and liar?

Of course, these were hobbits, and even the Buckland folk were so sheltered from the world that believing an army was on its way was hard to conceive.  But still, a dark corner of Nori’s heart trembled and hurt, for the scene was far too familiar.  That they did not believe because he was not worth believing.  Because he was nothing, and worth less than dirt. 

Desperate eyes turned to Dwalin.  He grimaced at even the thought of the guard captain believing him.  Part of the company or not, he was still a thief, and Dwalin still a guard.  Guards only ever took care of their own. 

Still, he looked upon the larger dwarf’s face, a blank mask he couldn’t read.  Dwalin had his arms crossed, eyes narrowed, and when he spoke, what he said almost knocked Nori on his ass.

“You,” He began, turning to point to a hobbit.  Said hobbit looked as if they might faint at merely being spoken to by a dwarf.  “Gather a few of your friends and get the word out.  If they’re coming here, the Shire’s their target.  Let people know.”  After giving a few nervous nods, the hobbit ran off.  “And you –“ Turning round, Dwalin addressed the bounder, who looked incredulous and rather put out by Dwalin’s tone.  “Start gathering supplies, get everyone together, and do it fast.  By nightfall we have to be ready to leave.”

Storming about, Dwalin kept talking, seeming to be thinking through his plan.  “Our best bet’s the forest.”  That got the hobbits talking.  Grimacing, he turned his voice on them, louder.  “You won’t all make it across the river in time, there’s too many of you.  And the fields beyond it are too open to make good cover; if the orcs come upon us too quick, we’d be dead.”  A firm look came over him.  “But the forest, they’ll avoid that.  They’ll take their bounty here, make camp, and aim to cross the river.  They won’t risk the woods to steal what little we can take with us.”

“What about the boats?”  A younger hobbit, who by her face and voice seemed to be taking the threat very seriously, asked.  “If there’s an army heading into the Shire, the Brandywine’s the only defense they’ve got.  If they cross it…”

“Burn ‘em.”  Dwalin spat.  A furious wave of indignant whispers rang out at that.  “Burn ‘em!”  Dwalin repeated loudly.  “Else there’ll be fires on the other side of the river tonight.  And the bridge, too.”

Nori, finally finding his voice, managed to whisper an incredulous, “What?”

Dwalin turned a bright grin on him.  “We’re tearing down the Brandywine Bridge.”

//

There were many dangers to be wary of on the journey through Ered Luin.  There were, of course, the orcs and goblins who called Rath Teraig their home, and sometimes ventured outside it in search of game or sport.  There was Haudh Lin, where wraiths and restless spirits wandering over the moors, and had little patience for living visitors. 

And there were, of course, the dwarves.

While dwarves prided themselves on their honor and dignity, it was true that not every dwarf was an upstanding sort.  Those who committed grievous crimes were even cast out, their beards forcibly shorn and their names erased from the lineages of their families.  Murderers, blackmailers, abusers, the lowest of the low, were cast out, left to wander the wilderness on their own.

These horrid excuses for dwarves often banded together, creating cults of crime that pillaged the countryside.  In his days of protecting Ered Luin, Thorin had taken care of and hunted down quite a few of these. 

And it seemed they remembered him, and weren’t very happy about it.

There were twenty of them in all, and they surrounded him in a blink of an eye, before he could so much as put his hand on his sword.  Even if he weren’t horribly outnumbered, he was still injured, and his fighting skills were hampered because of it.  So, when they approached, he stood still, offering no threat, head held high with a dark brooding glare leveled at all around him.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” One, whom he presumed was the leader, said with a chuckle.  He was beardless, clearly an outlaw, and a vicious smile came over his face.  “What an – honor,” He gave a mocking half-bow, to which all the outlaws laughed.  His next words were orders, to have their ‘king’ gagged and bound, and though he struggled and fought, it was to no avail.  They tied his arms and legs, gagged him, and tied a bag around his head, before hauling him off to their camp.

//

In the years to come, Dwalin son of Fundin would be well known in Buckland.  There would be many to hail him a hero for his quick thinking, his unwavering resolve, and his great strength.  But of course, there would always be those who, even when the threat of attack proved true, would rue the day he came to Buckland, and curse his name, for the ruin of so many fantastic boats and a treasured landmark.

Dwalin, obviously, didn’t give a shit.  Sacrifices have to be made to survive, and if the hobbits didn’t know that, well, he’d teach them the hard way.  They’d learn by the time they got out of this mess. 

By nightfall, Dwalin’s orders had been followed; the bridge, given a few hour’s work, had been torn down by its supports, collapsing into the river and sinking far below.  The boats were held for last; their smoke might too easily draw attention, and if the orcs got curious, they’d be in trouble.  So only when all the Bucklanders and what supplies they could readily prepare were gathered in the Bonfire Glen, did a group of hobbits led by Nori begin the fires.

Then, all of Buckland disappeared into the Old Forest, led by a surly dwarf, and his three bickering friends.

“I cannot believe you ran off without telling me –“

“- he was fine, I’d never have let anything happen to him –“

“ – you are so reckless, never think things through, and that’s bad enough –“

“- you’re always coddling him, you’ve got to let him grow up, for Mahal’s sake!”

“ – now you’re teaching Ori to do the same, and I won’t have it, I –“

“That’s enough!”  Dwalin barked, silencing both dwarves.  Dori, for his part, looked sheepish and embarrassed, but Nori just looked angry, fists clenched, eyes dark and brow furrowed.  “I don’t know what the two of you were doing here, and right now, I don’t care.  We’ve got bigger problems.”

“Do you think Thorin and the others will hear about the orcs in time?”  Ori asked quietly.  He stood close to Dori’s side, his gaze flickering back towards the Shire every few seconds.

“Let’s hope, lad,” Dwalin sighed, patting his shoulder.  “All we can do for now is take care of these folk.  The Forest is about as bad as the orcs, so I’ve heard.”

“Perhaps worse,” The young hobbit who’d so readily supported Dwalin earlier appeared at their side then.  “But at least we know how to handle the Forest.  Orcs, well, I’m not so sure.  Some of us could, but not all of us.”  The hobbit turned, and extended a hand.  “Primula Brandybuck, at your service.”

“Dwalin, at yours,” Dwalin took the hobbit’s hand, shook it.

“Thank you for doing this,” She continued with a smile.  “Not many are overly concerned about hobbits.  Most would’ve fended for themselves, and damned the rest.”

“We aren’t most folk, miss.”  Dori replied.  “Dori, at your service, and these are my brothers, Nori and Ori.”

“Pleasure,” The hobbit smiled.  “Though I’m glad to meet you, I wish it were under better circumstances.”  She glanced about at the ever darkening wood around them; the further in they walked, the farther away the sun seemed to be.

“Keep a sharp eye out, and you’ll fare better than most.”  Dwalin told her.  Then, raising his voice, he addressed the group.  “Our best bet’s to make for Bree, it’s the closest town outside the forest.”

“What about the Shire?”

Glancing back, Dwalin thought of his own folk, of those dear to him whom he’d left behind – of Thorin.  “They’re on their own.”  


	8. Trouble in Tuckborough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Heir of Durin and the Heir of Isildur finally meet, with no pretenses; and they find they both have a hobbit in common.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed this story has recently gained not just one, but two extra side stories! "What Never Was, Was Lost" focuses on Thranduil, Elrond, and Azog, a little before the start of this story. "The Shadows of Twilight" is a companion piece that begins a little later on than where we are in this story, but as it's solely about Azog and Elrond, and doesn't really contain any spoilers for THoK, so it's safe to read, if you'd like. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are love~! c: Thanks for reading!

They’d been on the road for perhaps an hour when Strider called for Bilbo to come to a sudden halt.

“What is it?”  The hobbit asked, trying to peer over the ranger’s shoulder as they knelt in the middle of the road.  “Something wrong?”

“Perhaps,” They muttered, walking on hands and knees carefully across the ground.  Bilbo watched them gently brush their hands over the earth, seeing something he clearly was missing.  “There was a struggle here,” The ranger finally said.  “Someone was attacked… bound, and taken by force.”

Bilbo’s heart leapt into his throat.  “R – Really?  You can tell all that?”  He glanced to the ground, which for all the world just looked like the road to him. 

“I am certain.”  Frowning, Strider stood, hand on their sword.  “Not an hour has passed; they may yet be nearby.”  Then they turned to face Bilbo.  “I will seek them out.”

“Well, of course we should, if someone’s in danger –“

“Not both of us.”  The ranger held up a hand.  “Your Shire is in too dire a need to risk us both.  You should continue on, and I will follow when I can.”

The hobbit cocked an eyebrow.  “Are you sure?”  He crossed his arms.  “It’s not because I’m a hobbit, is it?  I’ll tell you now, I may not like it, but I can hold my own in a fight.  After facing a dragon, I think a few bandits should be easy.” 

Strider smiled.  “I have no doubt.”  Then, kneeling, they placed a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder.  “I will be fine.  Follow the road to Gondamon, and await me there.”  Standing, they turned, and took to the forest, calling over their shoulder, “Await me until tomorrow morn; if I have not returned, go on without me!”  Then, they were gone.

Bilbo frowned, looking towards the foliage they’d vanished into, before sighing and turning to his pony.  “Looks like it’s just us,” He said, taking to the road again.   The pony gave a little chirp.  “I don’t like it, either.”

//

The trail was straight-forward enough; clearly these bandits were not at all afraid of being discovered, or followed.  Or, their target was important enough to merit the risk.  Whatever the case, Aragorn had no trouble finding their base, which was a cave perhaps five miles off the road. 

This was a rather reckless venture.  They knew that; even as they crawled up closer to the entrance, eying the guards, Aragorn imagined their chances as quite low.  By the tracks on the road, there were at least two dozen, maybe more, bandits within the camp.  And among them, one poor traveler who’d had the bad luck to draw their attention.

Aragorn would not leave them to that fate.

Frowning, the ranger hefted their sword, and charged out of the underbrush.

//

Gondamon was luckily not so hard to find, being built right upon the edge of the main road.  It was a mighty fortress, set upon a plateau that rose over the road and the bridge which led north, nearby.  An outpost of Ered Luin, it was the home of many soldiers and merchants, mostly dwarves, and a handful of travelers moving either north or south.

Bilbo looked up upon it in awe, holding tight to his pony’s reigns, before smiling a little.  “Well, at least tonight we’ll have a bed.  It might not be elven, but it’s something.”  In the last year Bilbo had certainly become quite fond of dwarves and their ways, but in his heart he would always hold a special fondness for elves, that stretched back to his youth. 

 _Best not to let Thorin know that!_   He thought with a laugh – which quickly died, and turned to a bitter frown. 

He led his pony up the steep incline to the main gate, where he was given a quick look over, judged harmless, and allowed entry.  It was bustling inside, with merchants and shopkeepers lining every wall with their stalls, and visitors shuffling about restocking for their impending journeys.  It was less cold inside, given the great walls, but there Bilbo noticed his first traces of snow: lining the walls, littering the ground, drifting slowly from the sky.  It was only a few inches, but given time, it would certainly multiply.

He looked around with a fond smile, happy to be among people once more.  Much as he enjoyed traveling with Strider, he was one for being in a busy place, with life and laughter to it.  He wandered through the market, glancing round with wide eyes, taking in the jewelers and weapons dealers, eyeing the toy makers and clothing suppliers.  There were beautiful things all around, but none that truly caught his eye – until the flower stand.

Hobbits love all growing things, and Bilbo was not exempt from that.  With bright eyes and a warm smile, he came up to the flower stand, at least to look.  Admittedly, he had little use for flowers on the road, and hadn’t brought much coin with him, in his haste.  But still, it could not hurt to look.

“May I help you?”

Jumping, Bilbo turned to see the shopkeeper.  He hadn’t noticed her before.  Had she really been standing right there, behind the stand, surrounded by all those gorgeous flowers?  Not a one was touched by snow, each as beautiful and brightly blooming as if they’d just been plucked in the midst of spring.

“I, uh,” Nervously, Bilbo fidgeted.  “I was just looking.”

The stranger was a tall mortal woman _, (Oh but is she?_   Bilbo found himself wondering _.  Perhaps I should not assume.  Or would she – they – this person be insulted if I did not assume such?  I – oh dear_.) with dark brown skin and eyes, flaming red curly hair, and a wide smile.

“Fret not, kind sir,” The woman inclined her head.  “I mean only to serve you.  You seem to carry some troubles with you.”

That… was true enough.  “The road north has been – hard.”  He finished dryly, glancing down.

“I’m certain it was.”  She tilted her head, sharp eyes narrowing.  “Hard, long, and bitterly cold, as is the evening past midnight late in the year.  You have suffered much.”  Bilbo felt himself flushing more and more, eyes going wide, very off put by this odd woman and her strangely discerning gaze.

“Yes, well, I – be that as it may,” Bilbo stammered.  “I’m rather certain flowers shan’t do anything to fix it.”  With that, he made to leave, only to be stayed by her outstretched hand.

“You never know.”  She turned her arm, palm upward – and suddenly there was a small flower there.  “One might.”  Stunned, Bilbo lifted a trembling hand towards it. 

“This – it’s a weed.” 

“A dandelion.”  She corrected with a sly smile, withdrawing her hand once Bilbo took the flower.  “Meant for wish making.  Keep it close to your heart, nurture it with your most precious desires, and you might find they will come true.”

Looking at the puffy white ball of fluff, which could be easily found in any field in the Shire, Bilbo frowned.  He somewhat doubted it.  Only, it seemed rude to say so to the woman’s face.  So, with a tight smile, he nodded and kept the flower, walking away with his pony as quick as he could.

Just as he made to turn down one alley and look for an inn, he passed a guard.  Curious, he stopped them.  “Um, excuse me,” He began.  “But who is that woman who runs the flower stand?”

The guard grunted.  “What flower stand?”  Bilbo just stared, and in a moment the dwarf sauntered off, grumbling about Shire folk. 

Once he had his wits about him, Bilbo spun round, half running back to the main square, looking to the corner where he’d spoken to the woman – she was gone.  The whole stand, every flower, gone.  As if she’d never been there at all.

//

He’d been made to kneel in the dirt for almost an hour now, and Thorin had long since grown tired of it.   All around him dwarves were bickering: should they ransom him to Ered Luin or Erebor?  Should they turn him over to the orcs?  Should they kill him, or keep him alive?  No one could agree on much of anything.  At this point, Thorin was ready to have them kill him to be done with the headache of listening.

 _They’ve no right to call themselves dwarves,_ he thought viciously, scowling at the back of the one nearest him.  His arms were bound behind him, but he’d been fiddling with them for some time.  They were loose, but he wasn’t free just yet.  If only he had a sword…

A cry from the front of the cavern drew the attention of all.  Then, the clang and clash of metal, and the tell-tale signs of battle rang out.  Three of the dwarves around him immediately drew their swords and went to investigate, leaving Thorin with only two captors.  He seized his chance.

Leaping to his feet, Thorin used his momentum to lift his legs and hop over his arms, so that they were in front instead of behind.  At his movement, his captors startled, but immediately went on the defensive.  It was too late for the one nearest Thorin – he head-butted him, hard, and the dwarf went reeling to the ground.  He was finished with a quick kick to the face.  The other stood, sword drawn, facing him, his back to the entryway.  That proved his undoing.

Round the corner came the figure of a man, hooded and cloaked, who at seeing Thorin and his assailant gave a cry.  “Here!”  The dwarf spun in time to face the barreling figure, who quickly and easily overpowered them.  Using the blunt end of the pommel of their sword, the stranger knocked the bandit unconscious.

Thorin watched with growing relief – and trepidation.  Narrowed eyes lifted to look at the man.  “I would thank you, stranger,” He began.  “But first I would know your motives, and who you are.”   It would be just his luck to be ‘saved’ by some bounty hunter out for the price on his head.

Sword arm falling to their side, the stranger lifted their hood off with their free hand, revealing a familiar face.  “I am Strider, of the Rangers of the North,” He said.  “I saw the signs of your struggle upon the road, and set out here to aid, if I could.”

“You!”

The man blinked – then flinched, as if stunned.  “Oh!”  He gave a slight bow.  “Prince Thorin.”  When he rose, he smiled.  “It seems we were meant to meet again.”

“Indeed,” He chuckled, eyebrow cocked, incredulous.  “On the way south to visit family in Lindon, you said?”  That earned him a pretty blush from the man.  “I suppose Strider is not your true name.”

“I – I apologize,” Strider replied, flustered.  “For reasons I cannot divulge, I had to keep such things secret.”

Thorin’s gaze darted down, to the ring he could see even now on the man’s hand.  Strider’s gaze followed his.  “For a secret,” He said, “You do not hide it well.”

The flush grew deeper.  “There are not many who know the significance of it!”  He seemed defensive now, almost embarrassed.  “For one whose life was just saved, you are rather impertinent.”

“For a man barely grown, you are rather skilled.”  Thorin meant the comment with all sincerity, and the man seemed to know it, for the anger in his eyes vanished, to be replaced with awe.  “Thank you.  If I may ask your assistance again?”  He lifted his hands.

Strider stepped forward, taking care with his blade to cut Thorin’s bonds carefully.  “Thank you, again,” Thorin said, rubbing at his wrists.  “I would know the name of my savor, if circumstances would permit it, for I am in your debt, and you and your family would know honor by me.”

“I am Aragorn, in truth.”  The man replied immediately.  Thorin barely hid his wince.

“You are truly very young.”  He said with a deep sigh.  “Please tell me you do not give that name to every person with a kind word for you?”

“I – no!”

The flustered blush returned as Thorin set to putting on his armor again.  Yet, when he bent to retrieve it, a great wracking pain ran through him and he shuddered, falling to his knees.  Wincing, he groped at his chest, where it felt as if all the air had been suddenly forced out of his lungs in one painful exhale.  In the next moment, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and two kind amber eyes looking upon him. 

“Are you injured?”

“Yes,” He admitted quietly through gritted teeth.  “But not from this.  These are old wounds, newly opened.”  He could feel them bleeding again, after his struggle with the bandits.  Oin was going to kill him.  “I will be fine.”

“You are bleeding.”

Sure enough, there was blood dripping on the floor beneath him.  Thorin forced a leg under himself, trying to rise, but it was a desperate struggle.  “I’m – fine!"

“You are a poor liar, and what’s more, a fool,” The man chided.  “You need care.”

A flare of anger rose in the dwarf then.  “And do you see anyone around to give it?”

That brought an indignant frown to the man’s face.  “I may be young yet, but I know something of healing.  I have been taught the arts by Lord Elrond himself.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Thorin groaned, fighting another shudder as he felt his knees quake.  “Elvish healing.  Death might be kinder.”

“Do you always set about angering those who want to help you?”

That stole the fire right out of him.  He thought of a small, happy hobbit with bright eyes and a cheerful laugh – eyes made dark, tear-filled, by his actions, by his words.  _Betrayer_.  “No,” He finally said with a pained grimace.  “I do not mean to.  That does not seem to stop me.”

The heavy tone of his words lightened Aragorn’s expression, somewhat.  He sighed.  “Lay down, here.”  It was a struggle, but eventually Aragorn had Thorin arranged on a bedroll nearby, laying on his back, and set about removing his shirt.  Things became somewhat… blurry, and distant then.  It seemed all too easy to fall asleep.

//

“Now, I could perhaps be wrong,” Gloin began, looking to the hobbit, “but I was told that Bilbo Baggins was an only child?”

The three of them, Oin, Gloin, and Drogo, were walking down the road through Hobbiton, towards the stables.  If Thorin and Balin had headed off somewhere, they surely would’ve gone there first.  Hopefully two dwarves stood out enough amongst hobbits to be remembered by someone. 

The hobbit walked between them, a shy, fidgety fellow, who kept glancing about as if afraid someone might see him walking with dwarves, of all things.  “Oh,” The man startled at Gloin’s question.  “Well, I suppose – you are right.”

Oin was a little surprised by their brother’s comment, too; but then, they remembered that evening spent in Buckland, and Old Rory’s tale.  Yes, he had said that Bilbo was the only child of the Baggins, hadn’t he?  So who was this little fellow?

“You are not his brother then?”

“Well,” A blush stole over the hobbit’s cheeks.  “It’s not so simple as that.  I – I’m not certain you’ll understand, not being Shire folk, and all.”

Oin and Gloin looked over the hobbit to one another.  “Dwarves aren’t so different than hobbits, I don’t imagine.”  Oin finally said.  “So? Are you or aren’t you Bilbo’s brother?”

“I – well.”  Frustration escaped the hobbit in a little huff, a motion that was quite like Bilbo in nature.  “By Shire law, we’re not related.  In fact, there’s many who would begrudge me my name, though my father gave it to me.  You see, I,” A little frown came over him.  He was twisting and clutching at his hands as he spoke.  “Well.  Bungo Baggins was my father.  But, um.  Belladona was not my mother.”

“Ah,” Gloin nodded.  That was it, then.  The explanation was enough for the dwarves, but the nervous hobbit seemed unable to stop.

“It’s just, it’s not considered normal, for us hobbits, to have such relations.”  Drogo continued.  “Belladona knew all about it of course – don’t go thinking my father was a cad!  No, it was a completely open arrangement.  My father – my other father, that is – oh!  I’ve gone and confused you haven’t I?”

Oin quirked an eyebrow.  “What are you trying to say?  I’m hard of hearing, not ignorant, laddie.”  They replied, waving their trumpet.  Oin heard their brother sigh, and grumble, but ignored him.

“No!  No!  Not at all, I just – well.  Not all Shire folk would understand.”  Drogo replied.  “Most assume only a mother can give birth, after all.”

“We’re not Shire folk, Mr. Baggins,” Oin replied with a huff.  “Best put an end to that assuming business.”

“Ah – right.” 

With a firm nod, Oin turned their gaze back to the road – and their eyes widened.  “By my beard,” The three all came to a stop as one.  “What’s going on?”

Ahead of them, all along the road, and the grassy fields on either side, were hobbits – dozens upon dozens of hobbits, walking, running, and riding in the direction that Oin, Gloin, and Drogo were coming from.  The three even had to step to the side, to make room for the number that were passing by.  Everyone seemed to be in something of a panic, hardly slowing down even when Gloin tried to catch their attention.

“Excuse me!”  When he finally got someone to listen, Gloin asked them, “What’s the matter here?  What’s happened?”

“Orcs sir!”  The hobbit replied.  “They’ve attacked Buckland!  And it’s only a matter of time before they come further inland!”  He sounded dreadfully frightened, panic clear on his face. 

“So you’re running away?”  Oin snorted.  “Not many places to run to.  The Shire’s a trap, fenced in by mountains on every side!”

Gloin glared at them over his shoulder.  “What my unfortunately frank sibling means is; where are you all going?”

“Tuckborough!”  The hobbit replied, starting to run off again.  “The Thain will know what to do.”

The three watched him go, eying all the other travelers.  “Well,” Gloin began, turning to his sibling.  “I suppose the whole of the Shire is gathering in one spot.”

“We’d best be there when they do,” Oin muttered.  “If the Shire’s under attack, they’re going to need more than gardeners and grocers to defend it.”

“What of Thorin?”

Scowling, the dwarf grumbled, “He’ll have to wait.”

//

Thorin remained unconscious for a good deal of Aragorn’s caring for him, which was likely a blessing.  His wounds were numerous, and grave, and had with time and ill care grown worse.  Upon seeing them, Aragorn let out a quiet prayer to the Valar that their skill would be enough.  They were not so sure… healing had never been their strong suit, or greatest interest.

“Not for the first time, I find myself wishing you were here, _ada_ ,” Aragorn muttered allowed, thinking fondly of Rivendell.  “Though I do not know what I would say if you were.”

They did the best they could, with what was available.  To their great relief, they at least found athelas growing in the forest around the cave, and that they used to great effect for their patient.  By evening, Thorin seemed to be steady, in a deep slumber, wounds bandaged and cared for.  Aragorn was in the midst of preparing a meal when he awoke.

The dwarf was clearly drowsy, blinking heavily, even as he sat up.  “Good evening,” Aragorn said with a slight smile.  “I am glad to see you are awake.  It’s a good sign.”

Thorin ran a hand lightly over his chest, looking down.  “I feel better than I have in weeks.”  The dwarf chuckled, somewhat in awe.  When he looked up, his eyes were bright, mirthful.  “I imagine I have you to thank for that.”

“I did what I could,” Aragorn said quietly.  “I do not know if it will be enough.  I am no healer.”

“Aren’t you?”  Thorin asked, settling back against the wall.  “I seem to remember in my studies as a child, reading something of the ‘healing hands of the king’.”

Aragorn’s face went brick red, and they stared resolutely at the fire.

“You are he, are you not?”  Thorin continued.  “The Heir of Isildur, heir to the throne of Gondor?”

“His heir, I am.”  The ranger admitted, a bit of bitterness coloring his tone.  “Whether I am worthy of any throne remains to be seen.”

“I have seen plenty, in our short hours together.”  Thorin’s heavy gaze seemed to stare holes into their very flesh, drilling into their soul.  “I have seen a young warrior, wise enough to question his readiness, and bold enough to go unaided to the rescue of a stranger in dire need.”

“Any ranger would have done the same.”  Aragorn insisted.  “It is our duty.”

“Not all are so earnest in their duty,” Thorin replied.  “And some, given the odds they faced, might have chosen differently.”

At that, the ranger lifted his eyes, feeling as if flames were tickling his throat.  “I would not leave you to die.”  They said fiercely.  “I would not leave any to die, while I could help them.”

A kind smile was Thorin’s reply.  “You have great worth, Aragorn, of the North.”  He said with a tremble of weakness in his tired voice.  “You have the heart of a king.”

Somehow, their already bright flush managed to grow worse.  “I – thank you.”

Thorin’s smile widened.  “You are welcome.”

//

By evening, Gloin and Oin and their new hobbit friend had made it to Tuckborough, with many others; the town was quite packed, with hobbits pitching tents in fields, and running all about in a hurry, panic and fear clear in the tense air.  It was amidst this chaos that Gloin elbowed his sibling, nodding to the road.  “Look who it is.”

Coming towards them were three familiar faces:  Bofur, Bombur, and Bifur.  “Well, well,” Bofur began with a smile, stopping beside the elder dwarves.  “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I don’t suppose you found Bilbo before this mess started?”

Bombur shook his head.  “No such luck.”  He sighed.

 _“Where’s Thorin_?”  Bifur asked of the healer.  “ _Wasn’t he with you?”_

“He’s run off,” Oin grumbled, crossing their arms.

“Best not to ask,” Gloin told the others quietly.  It was then that he noticed they had a companion as well, and at about the same time, the three dwarves noticed their hobbit.

“Who’s this, then?”  Bofur asked, looking him over.  “I’d take him for Bilbo if not for his hair!”

“Ah, well, we are – related,” Drogo finished, obviously still too nervous about the subject to try explaining it all again.  His gaze drifted to the hobbit beside Bilbo, and darkened.  “Lobelia.”

“Drogo,” She began, crossing her arms.  “Where is that – cousin of yours, hm?”

“I’ve as much an idea as you.”  The man spat, eyes flaring bright.  “He’s not spoken a word to me since he came back.”

“Perhaps he hasn’t got anything to say to you?”

“He was closer to me than he ever was to you!”  Drogo replied hotly, then seeming quite embarrassed by his outburst.  He continued more quietly.  “What is your purpose with him, hmm?  Trying to secure Bag End, now that you can’t just take it after you declare him dead?”

“My business is my own, and I’ll not have you slander me!”  The woman replied just as hotly, stepping up to him.

“Whoa!”  Bofur, coming between them, pushed the two apart.  “Come now, hobbits.  Haven’t we all got enough enemies right now to not be making them amongst ourselves?”

“He’s right,” Gloin muttered.  “Orcs in the Shire.  Would never have thought.”

“What could they want?”  Bombur asked.

“Food,” Oin offered.  Lifting a hand, they began counting by their fingers.  “Medical supplies, resources to repair their metal and armor, animals for feeding their wargs and creating their weapons, -“

“Yes, yes, I think we get the point.”  Drogo muttered, still upset.  “But why the Shire of all places?  Who would ever think to attack here?”

“I do believe that’s the point.”  Gloin told him.  “No one’s ever thought it would come under attack – so no one’s up to defending it.”

//

Aragorn stepped into the back of the cave and felt immediately a potent gaze settle upon them.  It sent shudders up his spine, to be watched so closely, with such… they did not know how to describe it.  Thorin’s eyes were bright and admiring when he looked upon Aragorn, and even should the ranger catch him in the act, the dwarf would not look away.  Smirking, unashamed, he’d keep Aragorn’s gaze, until the flustered man was forced to turn away.

He’d been awake for some hours, and regained some of his mobility, but clearly he needed a great deal more rest.  Aragorn wasn’t sure they could risk giving them that rest… the wilds were dangerous. 

“I think we should make for Gondamon in the morning.”  They told the dwarf at dinner.  It was a rudimentary soup, meant to be easy on the dwarf’s still healing system.

“I agree,” Thorin told him between sips.  “I am as fond of stone as any dwarf, but I’m not keen on making it my bed two nights in a row.”

Aragorn chuckled.  “Neither am I.”

“Besides, I have business there.”

“What kind?”

Thorin glanced towards him.  “I am seeking out a friend.”  There was some hesitancy in his tone.  Aragorn knew quite quickly who he spoke of.

“You mean Bilbo Baggins?”

Thorin’s head shot up.  “You know of him?”

“I traveled here with him, on my way to Ered Luin.”  Sighing, Aragorn set their bowl aside.  “I’m afraid… he does not wish to see you.”

“I don’t know how you came to know him,” Thorin said.  “But you do not have the whole story.  It is imperative I speak to Bilbo.”

“Even against his wishes?”

“He thinks me dead.”

Aragorn’s eyebrows darted skyward.  “You are certain?”

The dwarf nodded.  “Myself, and my nephews, he wrongly believes fell at the Battle of Five Armies, and he blames himself.”

That… would make a great deal of sense.  “He has been most grave since we met some days ago.”

“I must speak to him, let him know he is blameless in all this.”

Aragorn held up a hand. “Peace, Thorin Oakenshield.  It seems things between you are not so simple as I had thought.  If it will help Bilbo Baggins, I will aid you in finding him.”  They thought of the cheerful little hobbit, and smiled.  “He has been a kind companion since we met.”

“He is.”  Thorin chuckled, a smile lighting up his face as well.  “Kind, selfless, brave, and strong beyond all expectations.  We should never have reclaimed Erebor, if not for him.”

At the word, Aragorn glanced to the dwarf.  “Would you tell me the tale?”

So they spoke, late into the night, of a dragon and its ruin, a quest to reclaim a homeland, and the wonderful hobbit at the heart of it all …

//

When morning came, and Strider still had not come to Gondamon, Bilbo knew he had a choice to make.

It was a hard choice, because in the short time they’d traveled together, Bilbo truly had become very fond of the man.  They were somewhat grim, and quiet, but behind the austere façade was a kindness and sweetness of spirit that endeared him to Bilbo.  They were gentle, and warm-hearted, and though they were of a dark and brooding sort, at times, they were always incredibly thoughtful of others before all else.

Not to mention exceedingly handsome.

With a bright flush, Bilbo wondered where that thought had come from.  Yet, as he pondered it, he felt it was true – he was rather attracted to this strangely tall, foreboding man, who was so intimidating physically and then could soften the whole look with a timid smile.  A gentle giant, if ever there was one.  Bilbo was quite taken with him, though he’d perhaps not allowed himself to think of it, given their dire mission and the lack of time for such reflection.

Now, with distance between himself and the other, he found that he did admire this stranger, and would much like to get to know them better.  “Just my luck, hmm?”  He asked the pony as they both set out on the road together.  “I really do like them, but Strider’s right – the Shire needs me.”  He couldn’t wait around hoping the other would show in time, while the Shire might be burning even now.  So, steadying himself, he set out upon the northern road alone.

In his pocket, he carried the strange flower the woman had given him.  He had no clue what it was, or who she might’ve been – a wizard perhaps?  He could not be sure, so the flower made him nervous, yet he couldn’t bring himself to just throw it away.  So he let it be, sitting in his coat pocket, and put it away from his thoughts.

Inevitably, he turned his attentions back to the ranger he was leaving behind.  “Probably for the best,” He thought aloud.  “Strider is a ranger, a man, after all, and… well…”  Somber and down-trodden, Bilbo turned his darkened gaze on the pony.  “My last romantic venture outside my own people did not fare so well, did it?”

Thorin, too, had been grim and austere, and foreboding… yet so kind and gentle, when the layers of duty and leadership were pulled back.  They were much the same, once he thought of it; both held to a heavy burden, Strider as a ranger wandering, never at home, and Thorin as the displaced prince.  They were both so very serious, and brooding, made all the more handsome for the heaviness of their gazes and the sobriety to their looks.

“Ah, but perhaps I simply reached too far, before,” He thought with some self-depreciation.  “After all, what am I, but a lowly hobbit?  And Thorin was a prince – a King even!”  Looking to the pony, he nodded.  “Well, I’ve learned my lesson.  No more kings for me.” 

And, well.  Strider was a ranger, living in the dirt and muck, living a hard life.  He was no lofty king, was he?  Yes, Bilbo thought with a smile, perhaps here he’d found the right person to set his heart upon. 

No more kings, indeed!


	9. Thorin's Gate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo makes it to his destination, and he's being followed.

The path northward was ever colder and darker than what was left behind; the further Bilbo went, the more he regretted leaving Strider behind.  Much as it had pained him to do so, simply because he enjoyed the company, he found the Ranger would have been invaluable as an asset too.  Bilbo was not nearly so good with the setting of fires or finding good shelter for the night.

 

Still, he made it with little trouble, despite how cold he was, and tired, and wearier than he could remember being in quite a while.  It was almost like when he’d been on the journey, with Thorin and…

 

By midday, two days after he’d left Gondamon, Bilbo came upon a stretch of mountains, and between them, a valley path.  This path reached skyward, between the mountain peaks, and at its highest point, was divided by a great wall, a gate built of stone and guarded by dwarves in elaborate armor.

 

Bilbo approached it warily, more than a little nervous, but also thrilled to know that his journey surely had to be over soon.  Certainly this had to be the heart of Ered Luin, the home of its leader?  He could look for help here, and hopefully find it, and return in time to aid the Shire, if all went well.

 

He tried to ignore thoughts of what would happen if it did not, and approached the gate.

 

All around, other travelers and merchants and caravans were being shepherded forward, as the dwarves looked over everyone.  They seemed to be giving only the most cursory searches, enough to make sure that no, these travelers were not orcs, and then let them on their way.  Once they’d looked over Bilbo enough to be assured he wasn’t a threat, they let him through.

 

“Welcome to Thorin’s Gate!”  One of them bellowed as the crowd started to move.  At those words, Bilbo’s heart leapt into his throat.

 

_Thorin’s Gate…_

 

The city was snow-laden, a place of grey and white as the weather blanketed the stones that stood all around.  It was not majestic, not grand, like the dwarven creations of old, or Erebor recently reclaimed.  It was quaint, and quiet, but it was strong and sturdy, as all dwarven creations are.

 

“Excuse me,” The hobbit began quietly, approaching a guard. The guard did not hear him, and kept on, walking straight ahead.  Bilbo halted with a sigh, turning his gaze about, looking for another.  “Excuse me, pardon me – can you -?”  Another walked by him without a second glance.

 

Sighing, Bilbo lowered his hand, thinking of yet another reason Strider’s help had been so invaluable.  It seemed being big made it much easier to be listened to.  But the thought angered him, that being a hobbit and quite small in the minds of these folk that he couldn’t have something important to say.  And so the next guard who so much as passed him by, Bilbo ran after, and stepped right in front of him.

 

“Excuse me, sir!”  He proclaimed loudly, his cheeks hot with his anger.  “I am very sorry to interrupt your business, but I have an urgent matter that needs handling, and I must speak to someone immediately.”  Once all that was out, he huffed, some of his fire dimmed.  “Can you direct me to your, er, king?  Or leader?  Please?”

 

The dwarf looked at him, blinked, and then he laughed.

 

_Well_ , Bilbo thought _.  I suppose I should have expected that._

 

His efforts for most of the night were for ill; no dwarf seemed to think anything a hobbit had to say was really an emergency, or of any import.  They all shrugged him off, some more kindly than others, though most laughed and poked fun.

 

Finally, one of them informed him that every morning the Lord of Ered Luin had a time in which he took messengers from near and far, and would listen to their pleas.  Realizing that was likely his only hope, Bilbo gave up on talking to dwarves, and looked for a place to stay the night.

 

But once he had a room at the inn, and he was sitting upon his too-big bed with his shoulders slumped, he felt – restless.  There was no one to talk to, no one with a kind word to say.  Standing in the home Thorin had built for himself and his family, the refuge the Erebor dwarves had carved out of the rock wit their blood and sweat, Bilbo felt his loneliness and loss more strongly than ever.  He could not simply sit around, waiting for morning.

 

Bilbo paced about his room, fidgety and nervous, for a good twenty minutes, before he finally put on his coat, and stepped back out into the winter air.

 

//

 

Aragorn and Thorin took to the road in the morning at a faster pace than most.  It wasn’t as fast as they’d have liked; Aragorn found his strength had waned overnight, after using most of it on Thorin’s wounds.  The dwarf was loathe to slow down, but he kept pace with Aragorn all the same.

 

“I am – sorry, for this,” The Ranger huffed after his third fall during their run.  Thorin helped them to their feet, shaking his head.

 

“Do not apologize.  It is for my sake you are in this state, and it is for Bilbo’s that you exert yourself so.”  Thorin smiled at the Ranger, and Aragorn felt something strange and hot flood through him.

 

“I – thank you.”  They finally said.  “You are very kind.”

 

“You are easy to be kind to.”  The dwarf chuckled, turning to run again.  Aragorn was not certain what he meant by that, but it made them flush to their ears.

 

Even with Aragorn’s tiredness, they made good time, and by late night that same day they were passing through Thorin’s Gates.

 

“Now, we must find him,” Thorin frowned, glancing around. 

 

“Perhaps he has already gone looking for your lord?”

 

Thorin shook his head.  “No, I doubt he made it so far.  Dwarves can be - stubborn.”  When the dwarf looked at them, and saw the smirk and cocked eyebrow, he crossed his arms and grumbled under his breath. 

 

“Yes, I know from experience.”  Aragorn said with a laugh.  That only made Thorin grumble more, in gritty Khuzdul.  “Perhaps he has taken to an inn.”

 

“I doubt he entered the Halls, yet.”  Thorin said.  “He must be on the surface.  Bilbo… always did prefer to see the sun.”  Thorin glanced upwards, where the sky was grey and cloudy, and hardly any light could be seen.  But, Aragorn imagined it still had to be brighter than any cave.

 

“There cannot be that many inns in town, and a hobbit is sure to stand out.”  Aragorn told him.  “Shall we split up, and find him?”

 

“Yes.”  Thorin nodded.  “We shall meet in Frerin’s Court, once an hour has passed.  Hopefully, one of us will find him.”   A grim determination came over the dwarf’s face, which on another, Aragorn might’ve mistaken for nervousness.  But if he was nervous, Thorin hid it well, behind gritted teeth and a deep frown.

 

Aragorn agreed, and set out into the snowy city, keeping an eye out for a little hobbit.

 

//

 

The Old Forest was a forboding, dark thing in the daytime; at night, it only became less friendly and more grim.

 

“I don’t like this,” Dori said for the fifth time with a firm shake of his head.  “I say we get out of here, before we cannot get out of here.”

 

Nori was sure his brother was thinking of Mirkwood, and with good reason.  The Old Forest had some of that same malicious to it, yet somehow sharper, and more unkind.  These woods were not just predatory, they were angry, and they did not like being disturbed.

 

“No one wants to be here, Dori,” Dwalin said from his spot across the fire, where he was sharpening his ax.  “But there’s not much a choice.”

 

“Unless you want to turn back and fight.”  Primula, the hobbit lass, chuckled.  “I’m afraid you won’t find much of an army, around here.”

 

All about, hobbits were gathered in the Bonfire Glade, a large empty expanse under the trees, one of the only safe havens in the woods.  Few fires were lit, just enough to shed light to see, and all about hobbits were cooking and sleeping and comforting their loved ones.

 

“They’re terrified,” Nori noted, looking them over.  He was seated at the base of a tree, a knife in his lap.  He didn’t like this place, and he wasn’t about to walk under these trees unprepared.  “None of them are fighters, not one.”

 

“They’re farmers.  The most they’ve ever fought were wolves, and those are rare around here.”  Primula sighed, jabbing at the fire with a stick.  “The Old Forest may be dangerous, but we’re old hands at it.  Fighting orcs?  We’d never stand a chance.”

 

“I don’t know about the Forest,” Dori muttered again.  He was pacing about their little circle, unable to stand still.  “You say you can handle it, but – there’s something off here.  It doesn’t like us here, not one bit.”

 

They met eyes, and Nori glowered.  “Sit down, worry wart.”  His eyes flickered to Ori, who was curled up between him and Dwalin, clutching his knees, and staring forlornly at the fire.  He didn’t have to say it for Dori to get the message:  _You’re making him nervous_.  Dori took a seat by his youngest brother, shoulder to shoulder.

 

“You’ve got a point,” Primula replied.  “Usually, we don’t travel through here with this many.  The Forest lets a few of us through from time to time, but this – this is different.  The Old Forest, it changes.  Paths shift, places move.  You can never get through it the same way twice.  It’s easy to get lost, and with this many?  I don’t think we’ll all make it.”

 

Dwalin glanced her way, eyes half lidded and dark.  “You’re probably right.”  He said.  And that was all.

 

“You’re all right with that?”  Ori asked, quietly.

 

“Have to be.  What choice do we have?  Better some than none.”

 

“I could scout ahead.”  Nori offered.  Of all of them, he was the most likely to live, the one with the skills needed to keep to the shadows and keep from being eaten.  Plus, he was expendable.  Least risk, most reward. 

 

“No.” 

 

The firm denial surprised Nori, as did the strength behind it.  “Why not?  It makes sense.”  He insisted.  “Let me figure out the best path.”

 

“You heard her.  The paths change.” 

 

“Better to give it a try than walk these people straight into danger.”  Fuming, Nori gripped his knife tighter.  “I can do it.”  Can’t you trust me this much, damn it?  “I’m not trying to run off!”

 

“Did I say you were?”  Dwalin finally lifted his eyes, and they were darker still, a grimace on his face.

 

“You didn’t have to.”  Standing, Nori stormed off, still gripping his knife.  He made sure to quietly mutter a few of the less kind Khuzdul curses he knew, before he passed Dwalin by.

 

Damn that dwarf.  He could do this, and it might save some lives!  Surely if he didn’t travel too far ahead, the forest wouldn’t react that quickly?  Let him go a mile or two down the path, make sure it wasn’t too dangerous, and then return?  The hobbits weren’t fighters… if there were dangers to take care of they wouldn’t be the ones to do it.

 

_Damn him!  Once a guard, always a guard._   Fuck it if Nori had proven himself ten times over on the quest.  Fuck it if he was now considered a Lord of Erebor, whether he deserved it or not.  He had earned this much at least.  The trust of the Company – Dwalin’s trust. 

 

Crossing his arms, Nori leaned against a tree – then hopped up when he thought he heard the thing groan.  Frustrated and more than a little nervous himself, Nori cursed at the thing, and backed away from it.  Then, he set eyes on the path ahead. 

 

Glancing back, he saw his brothers and Dwalin still at the fire, talking to one another in raised tones.  They weren’t even looking his way.

 

_What Dwalin doesn’t know won’t piss him off_ , Nori thought to himself, before taking to the shadows.

 

//

 

“This is why you ran off?”

 

Dori hefted the necklace up, taking a closer look at it.  Ori resisted the urge to simply grab it and store it away, afraid he might lose this one clue he had.  He watched closely and nervously as his brother handed the piece of jewelry to Dwalin. 

 

“Ered Luin make, isn’t it?”

 

“Might be.”  Dwalin grunted.  “Where’d you find it?”  He asked, looking to Ori.

 

“Here, in the forest.”  He admitted.  “When I went in for fire wood… it was in the grass.  And Mr. Bilbo’s father was wearing one exactly like it in that portrait over his fireplace in Bag End.  The man in Buckland, h – he said…”

 

“Bilbo’s father was lost in the Old Forest.”

 

“So why didn’t you tell Thorin, hm?”  Dori asked pointedly, and Ori ducked his head.

 

“Cause he knew,” Dwalin replied for him, with a smirk and a glint in his eye.  “You’d keep the baby tucked away safe in his crib, instead of letting him come along.”

 

Red overtook the dwarf’s cheeks as he turned to Dwalin.  “Well I never -!”

 

“Come on, give the boy a break.”  The older dwarf spat back.  “You coddle him like he’s an infant, not a grown dwarf.”

 

“He’s not grown, not yet!”

 

“Might as well be.  The lad’s fought alongside us all through the journey to Erebor and he’s more than proved himself.”

 

“Ori is not even at his majority yet, and this place is nothing but –“

 

Sighing, Ori ducked his head.  Here we go again.  Usually it was Nori and Dori having these fights; it was strange having another dwarf of the company arguing with Dori.  But then, Ori thought, glancing at the big warrior, Dwalin was a little brother too, wasn’t he?  He had a hard time imagining Dwalin as someone his age, but who knew?  Maybe once, Balin had been the overprotective big sister.

 

The thought made him smile a little.  But then, he remembered his brother, and looked up.  Where had Nori gotten to?  Ori hadn’t seen him since his argument with Dwalin.  In fact… he couldn’t see him anywhere.

 

“Um, guys?”  He started quietly, loathe to interrupt.  When both dwarves were looking at him, he spoke.  “Where’s Nori?”

 

//

 

Walking through Ered Luin was like stepping through his past, or walking with ghosts.  Thorin passed through Frerin’s Court and glanced once upon the statue of his younger brother, before the pain welling in his throat bid him look away.  Forget walking with ghosts.  It was as if he were breathing them in.  Every step was painful, every half-turned glance and respectful kneel a stab in the heart. 

 

Most of the dwarves here recognized him, no matter how he was dressed.  In those days, fine clothes were more than a luxury, they were… impossible.  He and his kin had been dressed in the same poor rags as everyone else.  Now, dressed in dirty traveling clothes, head bowed, still Thorin found many of his old subjects recognized him.  He was polite, to all of them, but every bow and curtsy made him wince.

 

What did he do to deserve this?

 

Once, perhaps, he had earned their trust and respect.  But at Erebor, he had failed them.  He had utterly ruined himself, and almost cost all dwarves everywhere their kin and their ancestral home by his own folly.   He did not deserve this reverence now.  Perhaps he never had.

 

For a while, Thorin walked through the bitter cold with a colder heart and a sinking feeling in his gut.  The first inn he checked had seen no sign of a hobbit.  The second had – there was a hobbit checked in.  But he’d left sometime earlier, and no one knew where he went.

 

“Damn!”  Thorin cursed allowed, walking back out into the snow.  He could be anywhere in town.  Should he wait at the inn, for him to return?  That would make the most sense, but Thorin found he could not do it.  He was antsy, restless, just thinking that Bilbo was so close, that he thought – he believed –

 

 

Thorin thought upon Bilbo, and what he must be thinking, and suddenly, it came to him.  He knew exactly where the hobbit would be.

 

//

 

“Blast that idiot!”

 

Ori winced at the anger in the dwarf’s voice, though it was not directed at him.  Currently it was being channeled into hacking and slashing through foliage, which the woods around them really did not seem to like.  Nervously, Ori glanced about as the trees themselves seemed to rattle and groan.  That was not a good sign.

 

Dwalin had, very unhappily (which translated into great anger on his part), informed the hobbits they would be scouting ahead (rather than telling them that one of their own had run off and they were chasing after him).  The three dwarves, plus Primula, took to the woods, following after what seemed to be Nori’s path, though Ori could hardly tell.  He left the tracking to two very angry dwarves, both of whom were so concerned about Nori that, when they found him, they would probably throttle him to death.

 

Ori and Primula walked behind them, keeping close, while the hobbit held aloft a torch.  She glanced his way.  “That was very kind, what you did.”

 

The dwarf gulped.  “What I - ?  What did I do?”

 

“Trying to find Bilbo’s father.”  Primula smiled somberly.  “It’s quite unfair, what the Shire has done to that poor family.  Though, I’m not certain even a body could put it all to rights, now.”

 

Ori blinked.  “Did something happen to Bilbo’s family?”

 

A dark scowl came over Primula’s face.  “You have to understand,” she began quietly.  “Hobbits, we’re friendly folk.  But we’ve got a mean streak too, and can be mighty unkind at times.  Hobbits talk.  When something happens we don’t like, we can become quite cruel about it.”

 

“Why would anyone want to be cruel to Bilbo?”

 

“His parents.”  Primula shrugged.  “His mum was a Took, his da a Baggins.  It wasn’t a right match, they all said.  The Tooks thought Belladona was slumming it; the Baggins thought Bungo was being irresponsible and foolish.  Both families shunned them, and their child, when he was born.  And of course, their friends took after one another, with the Brandybucks following after the Tooks, and the Chubbs and Grubbs were always close to the Baggins, and – well, it became a right mess.”

 

They came to a grove with a fallen tree, and the four slowed for a moment.  Dwalin was kneeling, looking at something, while Primula and Ori hung back.  “It got worse when Bungo died.”  Primula said slowly.  “Because, well.  Not everyone is convinced he did.”

 

Ori snapped up to look at her.  “What do you mean?”

 

“Some… think he ran away, and left Bilbo to die.”

 

Heart flying into his throat, Ori struggled for the words.  “T – That’s – that’s bollocks!”  The hobbit glanced at him, eyebrows high, a stunned expression on her face.  “Pardon me, but that’s – that’s what it is.  Bilbo Baggins is an amazing and wonderful person and I can’t believe his father would ever be a horrid coward like – like that.”

 

A smile tugged at Primula’s lips.  “You know, you dwarves – you’re not a bad lot.”

 

“ _Look out!”_

The two of them reacted just in time, taking to the ground just as something flew straight overhead.  Ori grabbed Primula, pulling her to his chest, ignoring the high shriek that burned his ears from above.  He recognized that ungodly sound.  It –

 

“Spiders!”

 

Glancing back, Ori saw what had flown past them: a corpse, a giant spider on its back, having been knocked out of a tree.  In its belly was a knife, pushed deep, and a moment later Nori leapt down atop it, from the trees.

 

“You!”  Dori shouted behind them, pushing past Ori and Primula as they stood to stand in front of the thief.  “What do you think you’re doing? You’re going to get yourself killed!”

 

“I’m trying to keep us alive!”  Nori spat back, a firm scowl on his face.  Ori felt his stomach sink into his feet.  _Oh boy_.  He knew his brothers, and how they argued.  Mostly it was just friendly banter, or bickering.  But this was edging on a real confrontation.  _Not good!_

 

But before they could really get into it, they were interrupted by Dwalin.  The big dwarf stormed over to them, stepping in front of Dori to scowl at his brother.  “Do you have a death wish?”

 

Nori, ever brash and reckless, puffed up his chest and faced him.  “I’m not afraid of you!”

 

“You – not me!”  Dwalin sputtered.  “Going on your own into the woods, that thing could’ve killed you!”

 

The thief was taken aback, flushed to his ears, but he frowned.  “I’m fine.”

 

“You’ve got luck, I’ll give you that.”  The other huffed, turning away.  “Come on, let’s get back before any more of those bastards show up.”

 

Fate has a sense of humor, of course.  For no sooner than Dwalin had finished speaking, more showed up.

 

//

 

Even after almost a year since his death, the sight of Thorin Oakenshield’s graven face sent waves of conflicting emotion through Bilbo.

 

It was, of course, only stone, but for a moment it brought to mind all those thoughts and feelings long gone; love, anger, frustration, regret, sorrow, all potently mixed together beneath his breast. 

 

The statue was in a dark, secluded corner of the city before Thorin’s Halls, the underground sanctuary of Ered Luin.  Thorin had, apparently, not wanted one.  In Frerin’s Court, there was one to honor his fallen brother.  In the underground marketplace, there was another, honoring his sister.  But he never commissioned one for himself, and thought that such self-centered adulation was unbecoming (and no one would say it was a weakness of Thror’s within the once-King’s earshot, when he was still living). 

 

Or so the very talkative dwarf had told him, when Bilbo had asked at the inn.  Having heard the place was called “Thorin’s Gate”, well, it made him wonder.  Surely, after everything he’d done for them, after all he’d sacrificed… they had something to honor him by?

 

“He didn’t want it,” The dwarf told him.  “But his sister made sure he got it.  The twins softened the blow, too, I’m sure.  Told him it was grand and majestic.  He was embarrassed, I think.  Not something many dwarves will openly admit to, but at my age, what’s the harm in calling a spade a spade?  No shame in it.”

 

He told Bilbo where to find it: a snow-covered courtyard, amid a few shops, shut down for the day.  It was perhaps twenty feet high, an image of Thorin in his furs, a sword placed in the ground in front of him, one hand on its hilt, another on his hip.  He looked every bit the lordly dwarf he’d once been, but the stone could not capture his life, his fire, the soft glint of his eye.

 

Bilbo had thought this might help him calm his heart – instead, it seemed only to remind him of what was lost, and would never again be found.

 

Tears welling in his eyes, Bilbo sniffled, and fought the urge to turn away.  This was foolish.  He had a whole life ahead of him to live, and he could not live it mired in the past, clinging to feelings he’d never expressed. 

  
Yes, he’d always loved Thorin.  Perhaps if he’d said something earlier, perhaps if he’d done more… things might’ve been different.

 

Bilbo sighed, looking up to the statue.  He came to a halt in front of it, a good five feet away.  There was a bench nearby; he took a seat upon it, shoulders slumped, heart low.  It had seemed a good idea, to do this, earlier… now, it seemed so hard. Clenching his hands on the backs of his thighs, the hobbit took a very deep breath.  And another.  And another.  When he lifted his gaze again, tears were falling down his face.

 

“Hello, again.”  He whispered.  Thorin’s harsh copy said nothing, of course.  Bilbo tried to remember the small smiles he used to give when he was pleased, but almost afraid to show it, eyes half lidded, hair falling free in front of his face.  It was hard to picture, after so long.  So much was slipping through his fingers.  How long before he could hardly recall his face?  His voice?  His…

 

Fighting a sob, Bilbo made himself stand again, though his legs shook to do so. 

 

“Sorry it took me so long to do this.”  He said quietly.  “Not to – to come to Ered Luin, I, well, that was never really part of the plan.”  A little weak chuckle.  “I mean… I told myself I would say goodbye, when the time was right.  But that time never seemed to come.”

 

“You were right there, in front of me, in the tent, and…”  He recalled it so clearly, the thick nasty scent of blood, sweat, and death, the haze of chaos in front of him, Gandalf’s concerned face, Thorin slumped against the pillows.  “I should’ve said it then.  There was so much I should have said, but I didn’t have the words, I – I couldn’t –“ Slapping a hand over his mouth, Bilbo swallowed his sobs as he cried, trying to compose himself again.

 

“Seems like it shouldn’t be so hard anymore.  All this.”  He waved his hand about haphazardly.  “It’s been a year already, after all, and I imagine more well-to-do hobbits might tell its not becoming to hold on so long, but it is so, so _hard_ , living without the dead.  It’s like… being haunted.”

 

Shoulders trembling, Bilbo lowered his head between them, arms pulled tight to his sides.  “I know I was something of a burden at times, and a right idiot, and I didn’t always understand you.  Granted, you did not make it easy, no sir!”  He managed to laugh, and almost felt it was genuine.  “Neither of us were quite ready for each other, where we?   No.”  Another laugh, weaker, darker, almost frail.

 

“I guess… I just wanted to say, I’m sorry.  Sorry I couldn’t do more, sorry I couldn’t do enough, in time.  And I am so, so sorry for what I did, I –“His nails bit into the palms of his hands, he was gripping them so hard.  “I only wanted you to be safe.  Instead I made things worse.   Talk about an idiot.”

 

“You meant so much to me, more than I could see until it was too late.  I wish I’d said something sooner, come to my senses quicker.  I don’t know that it would have changed anything, but then perhaps at least it would be easier to let you go.  Instead I – I have so many questions and regrets I can’t seem to ever stop thinking about you.”

 

Taking a deep breath, Bilbo lifted his head, looking up at Thorin’s figure one last time.

 

“I love you, Thorin Oakenshield.”  He said finally, voice thick with sorrow.  “I always will.”

 

The sudden sound of snow crunching beneath boots made Bilbo spin round, his heart leaping into his throat.  He looked up, and all the breath left him in a quick shocked burst.

 

“ _Thorin!”_

 


	10. Enemies And Allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili, Elladan, and Elrohir make some new friends.

Two full days in the Defiler’s company did nothing to explain his strange behavior to Kili.

The orc made no sense.  No matter how Kili looked at it, his rescue and subsequent time in the orc’s care could not be understood.  Why was Azog doing it?  What did he stand to gain?  What in the world had he meant by debt?

Kili wasn’t the smartest of his family, he knew that.  He was somewhat slow on the uptake, easily distracted, not always focused enough to unravel the problem before him.  But this, he put his full attention to.  If Azog was acting… weird… his uncle needed to know. 

The first day, they were both entirely quiet.  Kili spoke only to ask where they were going, and Azog gave a quick, guttural reply; they were following the orcs.  Kili thought to ask how long Azog planned to keep him around, and what he meant to do with him eventually, but he didn’t have the stomach to ask.  He was certain this was going to end horribly, perhaps with himself as some example set to his uncle, or as bait for some trap.  He would just have to escape before then…

They traveled slowly, given Kili’s state, stopping every few hours.  The orc was strangely considerate for a – well, orc, and Kili found himself almost feeling appreciative of his concern.  Almost.  He kept reminding himself that they were certainly not allies and that the devil had to have something up his sleeve.  He glowered at Azog, and when the orc caught him staring, he smirked as if it were amusing.

The second day, Kili simply found he could be quiet no longer.

“What’s the purpose of all this?”  He barked, after they’d been walking for an hour through the brush.  Azog didn’t even turn back to him.  He was wearing his hood again, and from behind, could almost be mistaken for a strangely large man.  “Why did you help me?”

“Would you rather I didn’t?”

“Depends on the reason.”  Sure, he was glad not to be a prisoner.  But if that was only so he could become someone else’s prisoner, to be used for revenge on his uncle…

“We are not enemies, little one.”  Azog replied with a rumble. 

“ _Yes_ , we are.”  Kili growled.  His fists tightened, and not for the first time he wished he had a weapon.  Azog had taken all of his, and his attempts to get them back had ended rather poorly. 

“You were my enemy when I served the Dark Lord.”  The orc continued to insist, glancing about their surroundings.  Half his mind was on the conversation, the other on their journey.  “I serve him no longer.  So, we are not enemies.”

“ _Yes, we are_!”

At that, Azog just chuckled.  “Whatever you say, little one.”

“Stop calling me that!”

Furious, Kili ignored the orc when he chuckled again, clenching his teeth.  Nonsense.  The orc was leading him astray.  He had a nefarious purpose to this, no doubt, and Kili would uncover it, eventually.  _If only Fili were here…_ his brother was always the astute one, the smart one.  He would’ve gotten the truth out of the orc, easily enough.

Glancing skyward, Kili whispered a quiet prayer to Mahal under his breath, and sent good wishes to his brother along the wind.

* * *

Fili tossed and turned where he lay, wrapped in furs and completely unable to fall asleep.  He’d been trying for some time, but it was just too quiet.  Glancing across the dying fire, he saw one of the elves sleeping, the other keeping watch in complete silence.  Did they not ever make a single noise?  Dwarven camps were so – alive, so vibrant, full of noise and mischief.  At this rate, he’d never sleep. 

Of course, it wasn’t just the quiet that itched at him, but the absence – absence of… Kili’s smiling face appeared in Fili’s mind and his frown deepened.  He sat up, accepting the fact that sleep was simply not an option, and then stood. 

The elf, - Elladan, he thought it was – sat upon a log a few feet away from the fire, staring out into the darkness.  Fili wondered how far he could really see.  He might not… like elves, or trust them, but he could admit they were fascinating to a degree.  He could almost understand his brother’s adoration for the guard captain in Mirkwood…

“Are you going to stare all night?”

The elf hadn’t even turned round, but somehow he’d felt Fili’s gaze burning a hole in the back of his head.  The dwarf stiffened, but relaxed after deciding he’d done nothing wrong.  He’d only been thinking, after all. 

“What’s it to you?”  He finally said, turning his gaze and approaching a nearby tree stump.  He took a seat.  It was only slightly more comfortable than laying on the ground.

“It is hard to tell if enemies are watching me, if I am feeling your gaze.”  At that, the elf turned, sharp narrowed eyes fixed on his.  They were dark, turbulent, like midsummer storms tearing through the sky.  Fili almost shuddered at the sight.

“You don’t have to worry.”  He said finally.  Turning his head, he tried to ignore the sudden dryness of his mouth.  “I don’t care to look at you.”

“Don’t you?”  That brought a smirk to Elladan’s face.  “It’s all you’ve been doing.”

Fili frowned at that.  “I was – distracted.  You just happened to be in my line of sight.”

“You would not be the first dwarf to find an elf appealing.”  Elladan continued, a smug expression on his face.  “There is no shame in it.”

Heat flooded Fili’s face, anger bristling on his tongue.  “I do not – that’s hardly what I was doing!”  Scoffing, he turned his head.  “You overestimate your appeal.”

“But I have some appeal, then?”

Damn.  “You are supposed to be keeping watch.”

“And you are supposed to be sleeping.”

“Can’t.”  He gritted out.  Suddenly a tremor went down his arm, to his limp left hand.  He began rubbing it thoughtlessly, as if that might return the strength to it.  It ached, as it sometimes did, but at least the pain wasn’t burning him anymore.

“Why not?”

Scowling, Fili turned to frown at him.  “Why do you care?”

“I am an elf, not heartless.”

“Are they not the same?”

Elladan frowned in reply, and Fili thought the look did little to mar his handsome appearance.  Yes, he was handsome, but that mattered little.  He had no time for such thoughts while his brother was… was…

“You worry for him.”

Gritting his teeth so hard it hurt, Fili managed to mutter, “Yes.”

“Worry will not bring him back.  Rest, and keep your strength, so you might save him.”

“I know that!”  That did little to help.  As much as he might tell himself that he could do nothing, that this served no purpose, he could not rest his eyes while he knew his brother was miles away, surrounded by enemies, hurting and alone.

“Yes, I thought you did.”  Elladan replied.  “It’s not much use, is it?”

His tone was strangely forlorn.  Fili turned his head.  The elf was slumped forward, playing with a knife in his hands, elbows on his knees.  Half lidded eyes stared at the sharp blade with that same stormy look.  “You know it’s not your fault, that there was nothing you could do.  But you can’t stop, you can’t rest, until you undo what’s been done.  Take back those who were taken.  But even then… that might not be enough.”

Eventually Fili found his voice again.  “Who did you lose?”

The blade spun between his hands, shimmering in the dim light of the fire.  “My mother.”

Fili thought of his own mother suddenly and a lump formed in his throat, as a dreadful sense of terror overtook him.  “What happened?”

“She was kidnapped, tortured.  We rescued her, but… she could not recover.”  He gritted out the words as if each one reopened old wounds.  “She went West, some years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

He did not seem to hear him, or at least, did not react.  But he did continue.  “I may not be fond of dwarves,” Elladan began.  “But I would not leave any living creature in the hands of orcs.”  He lifted his head.  “We will find your brother, that I swear.”

The words were rough, almost rude, and yet… the sentiment comforted him.  He gave a slight nod in thanks, and Elladan returned his gaze to his blade.  They sat in silence, and in time, Fili found himself tired enough to try and rest.

* * *

Bilbo stared at Thorin’s shade with wide, unbelieving eyes. 

The world had become a tiny pinpoint of light, centered upon the impossible, the unimaginable that he was seeing before him.  In a daze, the hobbit stumbled forward, taking a half step towards the ghost in front of him.  Then his broken expression cracked, and he laughed, threw his head back and laughed with tears in his eyes.

“Well, there it is, I’ve lost it,” He mumbled to himself, spinning back around to the statue yet ever aware of Thorin at his back, impossibly there.  He couldn’t be.  He – He couldn’t – “I’ve finally lost it!” 

“Bilbo?”

Oh, but it was his voice, so familiar, so real, and maybe if he had lost it that was okay, he could indulge for just a moment.  Vision blurred by tears, Bilbo turned back around.  It looked so like him.  Long dark hair flowing in the wind, regal as ever, head held high, eyes dark and glittering in the night.  He was dressed in worn travel clothes, like he’d been that night he’d appeared at Bag End, with a sharp gaze and sharper tongue and such a magnetic presence…

“This is not fair,” Bilbo muttered to himself.  Fake-Thorin made to move towards him, and Bilbo backed away.  “It’s not!  Just when I was ready to let go, now I’m _seeing_ things?”

“Bilbo, I’m not –“

“Real.  Not real.”  He nodded emphatically, rapidly beating heart rising to his throat.  Tears began pouring down his face as his cheeks flooded with heat.  “You can’t be real.  You’re dead!  So I’m either being haunted, or I’ve lost my mind – or maybe I’m dead, too!”

“No!”  A bitter refusal escaped the dwarf.  His look turned heated, like Thorin’s, like the dwarf in battle, passionate and protective.  “We are neither of us dead.”  Bilbo could only stare, stunned and disbelieving, as Thorin approached him.  A hand far too warm to belong to a ghost touched his cheek.  “I’m real, Bilbo.  I’m very much alive.”

“You…” Voice trailing into nothing, Bilbo covered the hand with his own.  It was so very warm, warm and comforting, and large, covered in hair, like Thorin… and that was his smile.  So soft, reluctant, like he was nervous, but happy… eyes bright and brown and…  “ _Thorin?”_

The dwarf’s look brightened considerably.  “Yes, Bilbo.”

The hobbit stared at him for a moment more.  And then he fainted.

* * *

On the third day, they found the orcs.

The route they’d taken had, eventually, brought them back to the beginning, to the edges of the Shire.  Fili and Kili had been near the Southern Bree-fields when they’d been attacked, and from there, Azog had led Kili back along the road to the Shire, albeit on its edges, in the safety of the wilderness.  An orc could hardly afford to travel in the open.  It had taken them quite a bit of time due to Kili’s injuries, which almost seemed to be getting worse, not better.

The dwarf had fallen behind Azog, once again, and glared at his back with a frown.  How did he have so much energy?  Damnable… orc… Fili coughed, struggling to stay on his feet as he made to catch up with his “caretaker”.

Azog was perched on the edge of an overlook, about twenty feet off the ground and half a mile from the road.  A few miles beyond it, the entrance to Buckland stood, the gate torn down and the wall singed with fire.

“What happened?”  Kili saw the damage and felt panic flood him.  Had the hobbits been attacked already?  How had they fared?  Where were the others?

“Isn’t it obvious?”  Azog snorted, barely glancing Kili’s way.  “The orcs attacked.”

Scowling, Kili glared at him.  “I know that!”  Then he turned to look at Buckland again, at the smoke spiraling into the sky.  “But why the Shire?”

“That is what I would like to know.”

The confusion in Azog’s tone drew Kili’s attention.  For the first time, he thought to wonder: exactly why was the orc general lingering in the shadows, stalking his own people? 

“Why not ask them?  They’re your people, won’t they talk to you?”  He spat, bitterly, taking a seat upon the rocks.  Doing so jostled his wounds, and he bit back a hiss of pain.

When he looked up, the orc was scowling at him from beneath his hood, and a flare of fear hit him then.  There was fire in those eyes.  How could he have forgotten who he was speaking to, how dangerous this creature was?  But the orc just snarled, and turned away.

“They’d sooner kill me.”

The words shocked Kili, mostly because they made no sense.  Why would orcs attack the Defiler?  Wasn’t he their leader?  Had there been some uprising, some coup?  Kili watched Azog stand again, moving away from the edge, and turning back to the wilderness.

“We’ll investigate their camp tomorrow.  Come, it’s getting late.”  He started walking away, and Kili fought to stand and follow, to no avail.

His legs just wouldn’t move; they wobbled, and shook, with sweat pouring down his face as he bit his lip.  His whole body rebelled against the movement, pain wracking his form, running up and down his injured leg.  Was – was blood on the ground beneath him?  He couldn’t really tell… his vision had become shaky, uneven… was he… was he…

“Come on, dwarf.”  Suddenly there was someone in front of him, a big figure kneeling beside him.  He said no more; but a gentle hand maneuvered him onto the person’s back, and then they stood, lifting Kili up.  One arm alone kept him aloft, since the other was long lost, cut off by his Uncle…

_Is Azog the Defiler_ carrying _me?_

Nothing made sense.  This creature, his actions, his choices.  The fact that he held Kili with such careful tenderness, and walked with slow even steps to keep from jostling him.  That he’d stopped to carry him in the first place, that he’d ever fucking protected Kili at all.  Why?  What purpose did it serve?  He had to benefit from it somehow, didn’t it?

Because if he didn’t, well… there was only one other reason that made sense.  But Kili couldn’t fathom it.  Surely Azog didn’t save him out of compassion?

It couldn’t be.

* * *

Fili awoke suddenly at the crack of a branch beneath someone’s foot.

He leapt to his feet, quiet as he could, turning to see his companions were already wide awake.  Elladan had his blade drawn, and was edging towards the outskirts of their camp, eyes darting about.  Fili felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

Someone was watching them.

He glanced to Elrohir; the elf was watching the trees with narrowed eyes, a bow drawn and ready to fire.  Kili quietly prepared his own knife.  He was hardly going to stand by quietly and let the elves take care of business, was he?

A burst of elvish from Elladan lifted Elrohir’s head, and he lowered the bow.  Relief was clear upon his face, but it only made Fili frown.

“Well?”  He asked, standing up fully.  “Are we being attacked or not?”

“No,” Elrohir muttered, returning his bow to his back.  “But we do have visitors.” 

Fili followed his gaze, to see Elladan approaching again, with three hooded figures.  They were tall, like men or elves, but by their heavier gait Fili imagined they were men.  He was proven right when the leader removed their hood, revealing long dirty hair and rounded ears.

“Well met, strangers,” The man began.  “I apologize for intruding, but in these lands, we must be wary of wandering travelers.”

“It is no trouble.”  Elrohir replied for them, giving a slight bow.  “You are Dunedain Rangers?”

Ah, that was it.  They certainly hadn’t looked like farmers or towns folk.  Fili had never met any Rangers before, though he’d certainly heard plenty about them in his studies. _Kili is going to be so mad when he hears I met Rangers without him._

Thoughts of his brother sent a sharp stab of agony through his heart, and he frowned, shoving thoughts aside.

“Who are you?”  The human by the leader’s side interjected.  “What is your business here?”

“Calm, Tera,” The leader replied, turning to her, before returning his gaze to the three of them.  “While my companion may lack – tact -  I would ask the same of you.  Who are you and your companions?”

“I am Elrohir, and this is my brother, Elladan,” The elf continued.  “We are the sons of Lord Elrond, of Imladris.”  That seemed to clear any doubt on the human’s part about them.  The woman’s eyes went wide with shock and admiration, and the leader smiled, giving a slight bow.

“And what of your dwarven companion?”

Fili was about to speak for himself, tired of being spoken around, but Elrohir beat him to it.

“She is Fili, of the Line of Durin.”

Fili’s heart leapt into his throat

_She is Fili… She is Fili… **She is Fili…**_

He heard nothing of the rest of the conversation, heard nothing over the thunder of his own heartbeat.  It thrummed in his ears, buzzing like panic, and in his mind he could only wonder:

_How did he know?_

* * *

Across from Fili, leaning against a tree beside their dying fire, Azog the Defiler was sleeping. 

Sleeping.  Like any normal dwarf, like any member of the company might’ve in just this situation.  Yet, the sight would not leave Kili alone.  It had been at least a few hours since Azog had carried him into the woods, set up camp, tended his wounds, fed him, and then after all that sat down to care for himself.

Why?

It just didn’t make sense.  Azog was an orc!  An enemy!  And yet, Kili hadn’t been hurt, or tortured, or mistreated.  In fact, he’d been cared for very well, and to his own shock and horror found himself actually relaxing around the orc.  How the hell could this be?  A few months ago, they’d been trying to kill one another. 

Scowling, Kili turned his head, glaring into the dim embers of the campfire.  Who cared why he was doing it, he was still an enemy.  It didn’t matter, in the end.  Right?  He tried, many times, to convince himself of it, but he couldn’t ignore this itch inside his head, this nagging thought that maybe he was wrong…

If his Uncle could see him!  He’d probably go out of his mind.  The thought of Thorin finding him with the Defiler did not make Kili feel better – quite the opposite – so he shoved that train of thought aside.

His eyes lifted to the enemy.  He was slumped forward, one of his knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around it.  It was kinda childlike, the pose, but with his big stature it was almost – endearing.  Obviously, being a warrior of his stature, he was probably still very aware of his surroundings, able to wake at a moment’s notice… yet, he still trusted Kili enough to sleep.  Or did he simply not fear him?

Granted, the dwarf wasn’t in much of a state to fight.  Looking down at himself, Kili frowned.  His re-bandaged leg was still aching from over-use, and it was likely he wouldn’t be able to walk for the next few days.  Would Azog leave him behind?  Or lug him around on his back?

Why was he doing this?

Kili couldn’t stop thinking about it.  It was a contradiction, an impossibility, but there it was.  An orc had saved his life, had cared for him, protected him, for seemingly no other reason than to help him.

A few days ago, if he’d been asked, he’d of said orcs were heartless monsters, no question.  But then… a few months ago, he’d of said the same of elves.  And a certain red headed Captain of the Guard had proven him wrong of that…

In the last year, he’d had a lot of his assumptions and beliefs about the world challenged.  All the company had, he thought.  Surviving the quest, taking back Erebor, fighting with elves and hobbits and eagles and what-not.  Yes, there was a time Kili would’ve rather killed an elf than receive help from one.  Now, well… now he was in love with one. 

Elves were no worse or better than dwarves, on the whole.  They were good, and bad, much like every other race on Middle-Earth.  But – if that were true of elves, and dwarves, and hobbits, and wizards –

Was it true of orcs, too?

Kili lifted his eyes, looking at Azog again.  He was the worst of their lot, wasn’t he?  If any orc was bad, it was this one, the one who’d almost killed Uncle, who had killed his grandfather and Dwalin and Balin’s father.  Who had reigned as ruler in their sacred homeland, desecrating it, keeping it from them…

Grimacing, Kili let out a little curse.  How could he be thinking kind thoughts of this – this beast?

“Done staring?”

Kili gave a jump and another curse, heart hammering in his chest.  “You – you’re awake?”

“Hard to sleep when I’m being stared at.”

A little jab of guilt hit him then – and why did he feel guilty about waking Azog up? _Damn it, Kili, you are so mixed up.  What would Fili say?_

“You have something on your mind.”

He turned his head back to the orc.  “What’s it to you?”

“Always so defensive.”  Azog chuckled at that, a throaty, deep sound.  “I’m certain you’ve had – questions, since we met.  Ask them.  I won’t bite.”  At that, he grinned, revealing very, very sharp teeth.

Kili wasn’t so sure about that.  He’d asked a question only a few others ago, and Azog had all but bitten his head off.  Metaphorically, sure, but it was rather risky.  Still, he was so curious.  It burned at him like an ache in his chest, trying to tear out his throat. 

“Why are you alone?”  Kili started, nerves rising even as he spoke.  “Why aren’t you with your people?”

The orc’s look hardened, but he didn’t seem angry, only – resigned.  “I am banished, upon pain of death.”  He began.  “More correctly, they tried to kill me.  They failed.”

Azog, leader of Moria, banished?  Uncle would want to know about that.  If the Dark Lord and his people had abandoned Azog, then he was vulnerable, an easy target.  They could take him down with little trouble at all!

_You’re thinking this of the one that saved your life!_   Bitterness swelled in his throat.  But it was true – the sworn enemy of his beloved uncle was weak, now.

Azog seemed to know what he was thinking; perhaps it was clear upon his face, for the orc smirked darkly, an eyebrow cocked.

“Well, little dwarf?”  He began quietly, voice firm.  “Will you try and kill me now?”

Kili scowled – and his hand went to the knife hidden in his boot.


	11. It Begins

“Duck!”  Kili shouted, just before he sent his knife flying through the air.  Azog listened, falling to the ground, and the shriek that was given off a moment later wasn’t his – it belonged to the orc sneaking about in the foliage behind him.

The dwarf was too injured to stand and get him, but he didn’t have to.  The moment Azog recognized the threat, he was up and after them.  In the next moment, he burst back into camp, dragging along an orc with him.  The knife was stuck in their shoulder, certainly painful but not deadly.

“Well, well,” Azog grinned, holding the orc aloft so that they hung in the air.  “A spy.  And a rather poor one.”

“I was good enough you didn’t hear me, huh, great Azog.”

“Shut your mouth, woman.”

“W – Woman?”  Sputtering, Kili’s stunned gaze went from one orc to another.  “That’s a woman?”

“Watch it, earth-fucker.”  The female orc replied.  “I’ll gut you soon as I get –“

“You’ll do nothing.”  Azog told her, before dropping her to the ground.  In the next instant, he was tossing healing supplies her way.

“You’re helping her?”  Kili spat.  “Is helping your enemy your _hobby_ or something?”

“Orcs are not my enemy.” 

“The Dark Lord wants you dead,” The other orc spat.

“That makes him my enemy.  Not my people.”

 _My people._   The words struck Kili’s thoughts. The way it was said… it almost sounded like uncle. The power, the reverence, the hope… gaze narrowing, he examined Azog’s face as he spoke.

“She’s still a threat!”

“She’s not a spy, or a warrior.”  Azog said as he sat down.  “The apron gave that away.  My guess, she got lost taking a piss and saw a campfire, stumbled up here in the dark and got too curious for her own good.  I think we can handle her.”

The orc’s face turned a strange shade of purple.  Was she… blushing?

“Well, fine.”  Kili sighed, falling back.  It’s on your head.”  Azog grunted, not seeming to care in the least.

//

Night was falling over the Shire.  Bofur watched the sky turned red from his spot on the guard wall, his look darkening as it did.  In the distance, on the horizon, he could see the campfires of the orc camps.  Stopping just in sight of the enemy, resting for the night – taunting them.  Bofur sighed.

“Hungry?”

He glanced up, surprised to see the companion approaching him was not one of his fellow dwarves, but the hobbit, Lobelia.  In her hands was a plate and a drink, held out to him.  It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“Sure there’s enough to go around?”

“There is – for now.”  The woman replied as she took a seat by him.  He nodded, diving in as he did.

“How’re things?”

“The Thain, the Mayor, all those big important folks met and talked about what we should do.”  That had been a few hours ago, Bofur knew that much.  He and his folk had been busy all afternoon instructing the hobbits on how best to defend themselves, building blockades, guard posts, and other necessities.  The whole thing was centered around the entrance to the Great Smials, the home of the Took family.

“So, what’d they decide?”

“We can’t escape.”  She told him.  He’d known that much; the orcs were stronger and faster than the hobbits, they’d catch up to them before they could get far into the mountains.  Even if they made it that far, there was no guarantee that the cities on the other side, Mithlond and Gondamon and others, would help them.  “We’re going to stay.  The Great Smials are well protected, and they run for miles underground.  They can’t hold everyone, but…”

“They’ll starve us out.”  Bofur replied dryly.  “With how many hobbits are here, we won’t last a week.”

“The Bounders and Shirriffs are going to fight.  Maybe if they see we aren’t a helpless target after all, they’ll give up?”

“Hmm.  Maybe.”  He doubted it.  Even if the hobbits did put up a fight, it would be nothing compared to orcs and goblins.

“Our chances…”  Lobelia looked off at the horizon, the red sunset reflecting in her somber eyes.  “They aren’t good are they?”

Bofur’s down expression was her answer.  “No,” He said.  “They aren’t.”

“How do you stand it?”  The woman muttered, wrapping her arms around her knees, putting her chin on top of them.  “Just waiting for them to come… trapped and knowing you can’t escape the darkness that’s coming…”

“You just…”  Sighing, Bofur lifted his gaze to the sky.  “You have to have hope.  No matter how dark it gets, no matter how impossible it seems.  You have to believe things can get better.  Because it’s not over until it’s over.”  He turned to look at her.  “Dwarves, we believe that no matter what Mahal, our creator, is with us.  His will is steel and his heart is iron.  Nothing can destroy him – and his strength is in us.  We won’t fall without a fight.”

“Hm.”  Lobelia smiled at that.  “Hobbits have the Green Lady.”  Her eyes turned upwards.  “She’s kind and beautiful and smells of flowers.  The summer and spring are her home.  She brings us the rains that feed our crops, the sunlight that warms us.  And in the dead of winter, when all is cold and dark, she reminds us with every sunrise, with each day that growers warmer and warmer, that spring will come again.”

“Well, then,” Bofur leaned forward, his look brightening.  “We’re not done for yet.  Sunrise is still coming, isn’t it?”

Meeting his gaze, the hobbit flushed, and gave a shy smile.  “Yes, I suppose it is.”

 

 

The spiders were pushing them further into the forest, cut off from the hobbit camp.  It was all they could do to survive, attacking and running as they could.  Dwalin stood between the bulk of the spiders and his kin, hammer hefted high to strike down any who came at him.  But just as he took a moment to glance and take stock of his friends, one of them struck.

“Dwalin, down!”

He didn’t hesitate – the dwarf fell to the ground just as three daggers flew through the air, straight into the beast’s eyes.  It gave an ungodly shriek as it fell away, cringing.  Dwalin leapt to his feet with a grin, nodding in Nori’s direction.

“Come on!”  Behind them both, Dori was fighting another spider off, and waving them ahead.  “There’s a path this way!”  With not a moment to lose, the two took off, Dwalin keeping Nori ahead of him, in his sights.

They had no choice but to flee, unable to return to camp, and unable to stay.  Before long the place was swarming with spiders, too many to fight.  The Old Forest had been their home for a long time, and they had the advantage in the creeping dark.  It wasn’t a fight the dwarves could win.

So they kept running, through the bitter dark, twigs snapping and crunching underfoot, darting and dodging through the underbrush.  All around he could hear them skittering, almost like a high pitched laugh, and it creeped the shit out of him.  Not like he’d let it show. 

After a time the sounds abated, and the group slid to a halt.  Dwalin immediately began counting heads, glad to see all were accounted for, including the little hobbit.

“Think we lost em?”  Dori asked.  He was leaning forward, hands on his knees, clearing exhausted.

“More like they gave up the chase for easier prey.”  Nori, on the other hand, barely looked winded.  He’d had a long life of running from danger, hadn’t he?  He looked to Dwalin, and the older dwarf nodded.

“Not the hobbit camp?”

“No,” Dwalin shook his head at Primula’s worried question.  “They won’t go after such a big group, too big a risk.  They’ll wait for some fool to wander off alone.”  He saw Nori blush out of the corner of his eye, and almost smirked.

“Yeah, whatever,” the thief grumbled.  “I’d have been fine if you guys hadn’t bumbled in and got in the way.”

“You’d have been dead.”

“What’s it matter to you?”  Steaming mad, the younger dwarf stormed up to Dwalin, having to lean back to meet his eyes at such an angle but in no way intimidated by the discrepancy in their heights.  “Why the hell should you care?”

“Because, whether it’s gotten through that thick skull,” Dwalin accented this by two sharp pokes to the boy’s forehead,  “Or not, you are a member of this company, and I don’t just stand idly by and send my kin to their deaths!”  Then, ire somewhat abated, he leaned back and grumbled, “Not even the idiots that’re asking for it.”

By the dumbfounded look on Nori’s face, the dwarf didn’t know what to say in reply.  Before he could return to his senses, his younger brother gave a cry.

“Come here! Look at this!”

The group, still wary of danger, quickly headed towards his voice, stumbling down a sloping hill to a more open area next to a small river.  Beside that river was an old cart and buggy, clearly left to rust. 

“This is hobbit make,” Primula commented, stepping forward.  “Looks old.  Owners are probably long dead or gone.”

“I wonder what happened.”  Ori muttered to himself, looking over the aged wood, upon which mold and moss was growing.  The scholar in him had awoken at the sight of the half overturned buggy, the walls beginning to cave in, the letters on the side barely legible.  “Bungo’s Bakeries…”  Wait a minute…  “Wasn’t Bungo Bilbo’s father’s name?”

Primula looked to where the dwarf was pointing, eyes going wide.  “By the Green Lady, you’re right.”  Astonished eyes glanced over the cart as she back away to take it in.  “This was his cart.”

“Then, this is where the spiders must’ve attacked them!”  Ori gasped.  Spinning round, he faced the whole group.  “We might be able to find his remains after all!”

“Ori…”  Dori gave a sigh, stepping towards his brother and placing comforting hands on his shoulders.  “I don’t think we have the time love.”

“But we have to try!”

“Finding some old bones won’t bring Bilbo’s father back.”  Dwalin grunted, hefting his hammer onto his shoulder.

“No, but it could restore his honor!”  That caught the dwarves’ attentions; turning to Primula, Ori pleaded with her with his eyes.  After a moment, she sighed, and spoke.

“Bungo Baggins was never found, alive or dead.  There were those who thought his behavior was – unbecoming for a hobbit, and used his absence as an excuse to malign him, claiming…”  She hesitated, giving a sigh before finishing.  “Claiming that he did not die, but that he fled and left Bilbo to die to save himself.”

The clearing erupted into angry and defensive shouting, to which Primula held up her hands.  “Of course I don’t think so!  He was a good man, what I knew of him, and that’s saying something given I grew up to take his son’s hand in marriage.”

Everything went quiet.  It seemed even the trees were stunned by the proclamation.

“… you’re married to Bilbo?”  Ori mumbled.

“Heavens, no!” The woman laughed at the thought.  “His half-brother, Drogo, is my husband.  He was away when the orcs attacked, off to Hobbiton to tell Bilbo the good news.”

“That news would be?”  Dori asked, but by his tone and downward glance, he seemed to have an idea.

Primula beamed.  “We’re having a baby!”

Her words were barely out of her mouth before Dori turned upon his thieving brother, red in the face.  “Wonderful!  We’re lost in a forest full of giant spiders with a pregnant hobbit, and it is entirely your fault!”

//

They kept moving, further into the forest, which only became darker and deeper the further they went.  Whether they were headed towards Bree, the Shire, or who knew where, they didn’t know.  All their efforts to retrace their steps went for naught, as the forest kept shifting and changing, as if it wanted them to stay lost.

“I told you,” Dori muttered for the fifth time, hands on his hips.  “I told you, this place is evil.  It doesn’t like us.  It’s going to send us round in circles till we starve or run into the spiders, whichever happens first.”

“Complaining about it won’t help.”  Nori told him, shoving him with a shoulder as he walked by.  The move infuriated his older brother, who stomped off after him in another tirade.

“Oh, I will complain as much as I like!”

“Are they always like this?”

Dwalin glanced to where Primula had walked up beside him.  “Most days.”  He grumbled. 

“Is this normal for dwarven families?”

The dwarf glanced at her askance.  “Some.”  At her curious look, he sighed.  “Dori is the eldest son of a powerful dwarven noble family.  Nobles, they’ve got rules us common folk don’t live by.  Arranged marriages, chosen heirs, all that shit.  From what I understand, Dori’s mother broke some of the rules.  She wasn’t fond of her chosen husband, and found somebody else to better satisfy her.”

Primula’s eyes went wide.  “A lover?”

“A few, as I’ve heard.  Nori and Ori were born bastards, and the clan exiled them as babes.”

Her mouthed dropped.  “You can’t be serious?”

“Sure am.   Common practice among those higher up on the social ladder.”  It was clear by his tone he didn’t approve.  “Dori didn’t know.  Had a fit when he found out, and spent a good decade trying to find them both.”  Hefting his weapon higher, Dwalin continued.  “They don’t get on well, as Dori’s used to getting his way and Nori spent most of his life in charge of himself.”

With a sympathetic gaze, Primula looked to the two brothers ahead, still bickering.  “I don’t know.”  She smiled.  “I think they get on well enough.  They’re both just so concerned about one another, and Ori, and certain they’re right, that they can’t help but butt heads.”  The smile became a grin.  “Stubborn and hard headed, like any dwarves.”

“Hn.”  Dwalin chuckled.  “And you’re as inquisitive and nosy as any hobbit.”

The woman grinned.  “Got me pegged!”

//

He returned to the world slowly, and then, all at once; reality hitting him hard, Bilbo sitting up with a gasp, wide eyed and chest heaving.

“Thorin!”  Glancing around, the hobbit saw no sign of the dwarf, only the inside of his room at the inn.  Wait a minute… hadn’t he been… hopes dropping, he slumped.  Had it only been a dream?

“You’re awake.”

Turning, Bilbo watched Strider step into the room. “You… you’re alright!”  He hopped to his feet, moving towards his friend.  “You are, aren’t you?  And those people you helped?”

“He is just fine – as you have already seen.”  Strider smiled enigmatically.  “It was, to my surprise, your friend Thorin I saved.”     Wait… “It wasn’t a dream?”  Bilbo whispered.  His hands began to tremble at his sides.  Strider nodded, happiness clear in his eyes.  “… it wasn’t a dream.  It…”  Suddenly frantic, Bilbo spun round, wild energy running through him.  He ran his hands through his hair and started pacing the room.  “Where is he?  I’m going to throttle him!”

“I’m right here, hobbit.”

Bilbo fell completely still.  That voice… just as tremulous and powerful as he remembered.  It had been the voice, after all, that had convinced him to help, that night he listened to the company singing their somber, heartfelt song.  Thorin’s deep timbre, more than any of the others, had drawn Bilbo in and entrapped him in their mad quest.

But it couldn’t be.  It couldn’t be.  “You’re dead.”

“I believe we had this conversation already.  Though, if you’d like to have it again, I would prefer to speak to your face.”

Finally, Bilbo spun round – and Thorin’s weary smile, his dark eyes, his long wavy hair and broad shoulders, all there, all proof that this was real, that this was really him.  “You… you… you let me think you were dead!”

“I certainly did not.”  Thorin snorted.  “That came of your own foolish mind!”

“Foolish mind!  Foolish, he says!  And here I’ve been mourning the man for months!  You – you – big grumbly hairy old –“

His voice was suddenly muffled in the leather clad shoulder of said grumbly, hairy dwarf, who was clutching Bilbo to him as if he were the most precious thing in the world.  “Oh, Bilbo,”  The man laughed deeply, and it rumbled through him and shook Bilbo as he did.  “It is so good to see you.”

Stunned, Bilbo remained still for but a moment – before he burst into tears and clasped the dwarf to him just as tightly.  “Thorin, you – don’t you ever do that again!”  That made the dwarf laugh, and through his tears, Bilbo chuckled a bit too.

Strider, standing off to the side, smiled.  He was loathe to interrupt, but sadly had to.  “If we’d like to leave with the army, we’d best be off.”

Bilbo leaned away just enough to speak, hovering near Thorin as if he might vanish any moment.  “Army?”

“While you were resting, I spoke to the master here on your behalf.”  Thorin explained.  “Ered Luin has agreed to ride to the Shire’s aid, and they leave tonight.”

Bilbo spun round; outside the window, he could still see the moon shining.  He hadn’t been asleep long, then.  “Do you think we’ll be in time?”  He whispered nervously.  “Will they be okay?”

“If we march through the night, we should be there by midday tomorrow.”  Thorin told him, hand on his shoulder.  “We can only hope it will be enough.”

Staring out at that cold, dismal moon, Bilbo nodded, his heart sunk into his chest.  _We can only hope…_

 

* * *

Morning rose with a red sun, bathing the Shire in crimson.  Oin and Gloin stood by the front gates to Tuckborough, axes by their sides, watching it rise with dark gazes.

“You sure about this, lad?”  Gloin turned to the hobbit standing between them.  Drogo Baggins had a dagger in his hands, some pieces of armor haphazardly forged the night before out of knick knacks and other things sitting upon his shoulders.

“Course I am.”  The hobbit insisted.  “I won’t just sit by and let them take our lands and our lives.”  He looked incredibly nervous, but the stumbling, bumbling hobbit from earlier was nowhere to be seen.  “I’m to be a da, soon, you know.  This’ll be my child’s home, and I’ll protect it with my life!”

“A da?”  Gloin chuckled, patting the hobbit on the shoulder hard enough that it shook the poor man head to foot.  “Congratulations! It’s quite an adventure, having a bairn of your own.  I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

“Does Bilbo know?”  Oin turned to him.

“Um, no.”  Drogo shrugged.  “That’s why I came, I wanted to tell him myself.”

“Bilbo’s to be an uncle.”  Gloin chuckled.  “Well, that’s some good news, at least.  Another reason to kick these creature’s asses to Erebor and back.”

At that, more than a few of those around them, dwarf and hobbit, gave bright, hopeful cheers.  Deceivingly hopeful, in fact.  Their chances were very slim, Gloin knew that.  Still, he wasn’t about to tell the wee folk gathered around him.

As the sun came fully over the horizon, he could see its light being distorted by a long black line, an army marching towards them all too fast.  Gloin tightened his hand on his ax, and glanced at Drogo again.

“Stick to me, hobbit,” He murmured, eying Drogo’s nervous, shaking hold on the dagger.  “We’ll make sure you live to see your babe enter this world.”  With that, he looked back up to the approaching army.

It had begun.


End file.
